


A Song of Magic: Prelude

by danceswithhamsters01



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle of Magi, Coming of Age, Death, F/F, Gen, Mages (Dragon Age), Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Origin Story, Pre-Canon, mention of but not depiction of child abuse, set before DA:O starts, the Warden as a child
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithhamsters01/pseuds/danceswithhamsters01
Summary: Everyone starts somewhere. The Hero of Ferelden was an orphaned child who was found to have the gift (or curse) of magic. She was taken in by the Circle of Magi. This is the story of Sevarra Amell's life before her fateful meeting with the Grey Warden, Duncan.Rating will be higher in later chapters.





	1. A Cry For Help

**Summertime, 9:16 Dragon, early Solace.**

 

Ser Alren had been called to Amaranthine on urgent business. The report given to him stated that a dangerous mage was being held, awaiting an escort to the Circle of Magi. He’d been apprehending, and sometimes rescuing, mages for years. This task wasn’t an unusual one in most ways. What puzzled him the most was where he was told to find the mage: Our Lady of the Purifying Pyre Home for Orphans.

 

He steeled himself as he drew near the building. He didn’t like visiting orphanages, it reminded him too much of his own early life. Always hungry, always looking over his shoulder in case one of the other larger boys wanted a fight. None of the adults working there really caring about their charges. He’d been sodding lucky that the Templar Order had taken him in. It got him food, an education, and training. Not all the orphans where he’d come from wound up so lucky.

 

He pushed in the door and his heart dropped. In short, the place was a nasty mess. The scent of booze hung heavy in the air. Several empty wine bottles were strewn on the floor, uncaring of what guests might think, or the potential danger to small children. _Well, we can tell what the caregivers spent the allowance the Chantry had given for the children’s care on._ It was already reminding him too much of the past. _Focus man. Get the mage and get out. Simple as that,_ he told himself.

 

“Er, hello? Anyone in charge here? I was sent here about a mage?” he called out.

 

A disheveled looking woman, well past her prime, her silver hair in half-undone braided buns, came shuffling into the room. Either she had poor balance or she was still intoxicated. She looked him up and down and hiccuped.

 

“Took you sodding long enough! We been scared to death for two days with… that thing… shut up in a closet! It’s killed two boys! You ought to be ashamed, dragging your feet like that!” she slurred.

 

He wanted to offer some choice words to the tipsy woman but bit his tongue. _Stay on task. We’re not here to play with the stupid people._

 

“My… apologies, madam. I assume you are referring to a mage?”

 

The drunk nodded. “This way. Careful, it might attack you if you look at it funny!”

 

He followed her down a filthy hallway into a cramped room. It barely had space for the trio of bunk beds in it. The far corner held a closet door, which was barricaded with a chair under the knob and several boards nailed across it to hold it shut. The drunk nodded toward the closet.

 

She didn’t lift a finger to help him when he shot her an incredulous look. With a heavy sigh, he moved the chair out of the way and then drew his sword to help pry the boards off the door. It wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it’d be. He placed a hand on the doorknob, curious about what, or who, he’d find behind it.

 

Whatever he thought he’d see, this wasn’t it. She was shivering in a corner, large eyes wide in terror, covered from head to toe in bruises in varying stages of healing. Some were dark purple, while others were smaller and yellow. Her dress seemed to be more patches than original fabric.

 

“You’re saying she,” he nodded toward the cowering creature in the closet, “killed two children? Maker’s Breath, _how_?”

 

That thing in the closet was tiny, scrawny and very obviously scared to death. He doubted she even had the strength to kill a fly.

 

The drunk scowled. “We found them boys covered in ice. It was the only other thing nearby. Not a scratch on it.”

 

He didn’t want to believe it, but he took a moment to close his eyes and concentrated. He listened intently. A weak melody wavered in and out of his mind. He opened his eyes and sighed. The child was cursed with magic.

 

“Well, what you waiting for?! Get it out of here!” the drunk grumbled. “Takin’ up space that a proper child in need could be using!”

 

Ser Alren somehow doubted that much in the way of care had been given to any of the charges here, much less the tiny mage watching him with dread.

 

“Come on out, you,” he said to the child. “You’ll need to come with me.” _And leave this Maker-forsaken pit behind._

 

The mage didn’t move. She sniffled and tried to make herself even smaller. He raised a hand to push some of the hanging clothes out of the way. The mage screamed.

 

“No hit me no more!”

 

He lowered his hand. Ice flooded his veins. He scowled at the drunk. “Did you put those marks on this child?”

 

“Damned right I did! Had to teach that thing a lesson! And make sure it wouldn’t get any ideas about doing nothing else!” the drunkard sounded proud of herself.

 

Memories of his childhood came rushing to the surface. He snarled. Before he could stop himself, he rounded on the pathetic excuse for a caregiver and slapped her, sending her tumbling to the floor. He would feel ashamed of himself later.

 

“How do you like it?” he growled.

 

He stooped down and scooped the girl out of the closet, resting her on his hip once he was upright again. This wasn’t an escort, this was a rescue.

 

“If I _ever_ hear of any child, mage or not, being treated like this here again, I’ll make certain you live to regret it,” he glared at the drunkard as she rubbed her swelling cheek.

 

**Two days later, The North Road.**

 

The little thing clung tightly to the horse she was seated upon as they walked along the well-traveled path. One of the Mothers at the chantry in Amaranthine had commandeered a horse for them to use. The noble had been initially unwilling to “donate” his beast’s time, but a hefty guilt trip made him change his tune. The mage-child was too injured and too young to make the journey to Lake Calenhad on foot.

 

They stopped by a lazy stream so the horse could have a drink and rest for a short while. He gently picked the girl off the horse and set her down by the bank. Rummaging in the pack, he offered her bit of dried fruit. She took it, but not without looking at him with a great deal of caution first, as if debating if his offer were sincere or if he were merely teasing.

 

She tilted her head, watching something in the water with great interest. Something green and glistening had crawled from the water’s depths.

 

“What that?” For once, those eyes weren’t guarded, they glittered with curiosity.

 

He peered to where she pointed. A small frog sat blinking by the water’s edge, not at all concerned about the trio of visitors near its territory. He smiled. “That’s a frog.”

 

She burst into giggles when it puffed out its pale cheeks and gave several loud croaks before hopping back into the water.

 

**Several days later, 12 Solace 9:16 Dragon. Lake Calenhad Docks.**

 

They waited, along with another pair of people, on the dock for the ferry to return. Another templar had made his way to the docks with a young child in tow. The other child was a boy with sad blue eyes and a hawk nose. She pulled something out of her pocket and carefully tottered near him, a weak smile on her lips. She held her cupped hands toward him, showing the prize sitting in them: a small green frog. He smiled.

 

Once the ferryman arrived, Ser Alren told the children to let the frog “go home” and release it. Pouting, they did so, and then shuffled on to the boat. The little ones could not tear their gaze away from the massive white tower as it grew bigger the closer the boat carried them to it. The ferryman made small talk with the templars as they floated along. The other Templar and his charge had come from Denerim. The boy had been abandoned at the chantry by his family after he’d showed signs of magic.

 

Eventually, they made landfall on the island the tower called home. The little mages were herded from the boat and toward the great doors of the tower, which had opened in anticipation of guests. A man with a bushy beard that was fading from deep brown into a salt and pepper coloration smiled and bid the templars and their charges welcome once they were past the threshold. He called himself “First Enchanter.”

 

There was another man in armor, his face was very stern compared the First Enchanter’s. He called himself Knight-Commander. The templars seemed to take orders from him. He didn’t seem very friendly. The young pair were guided to a small room off to the side from the entryway. First Enchanter said something about needing to make a thing called a “phylactery,” and how they’d need a few drops of blood. The little girl didn’t even blink as the cut on her palm was made. The matron back at the orphanage had made her hurt much worse, this was a tiny thing. She was confused by First Enchanter’s worried look when she made no sound.

 

She watched with fascination when First Enchanter whispered something and the cut on her palm sealed itself, leaving only a pale pink line in its wake. She waited by the door next to Knight-Commander when it was the little boy’s turn. The boy saw the knife and began wailing. He shrieked when a tiny dribble of blood came to the surface. First Enchanter looked apologetic as he healed the lad’s palm once the sample was taken. While the adults were talking and writing something down, she wobbled over to the boy, who was still crying. Fishing in her other pocket, she pulled out another little frog and held it toward him. He sniffled and lightly stroked the creature after taking it, making it give a small purring croak.

 

Looking their way once he heard the croaking, Knight-Commander chuckled once he saw the stowaway. He returned to speaking with First Enchanter, looking at pages of parchment the templars had given him. Several minutes later, he spoke up.

 

“Mm. Jowan, is it? And Sevarra? You will go with Wynne here and get something to eat before a bath,” he nodded toward a woman who had drifted into the room.

 

The little boy, Jowan, looked up and trotted over to this ‘Wynne’ person.

 

The little girl looked up when what sounded close to her name was spoken. It wasn’t the way momma and poppa had said it, but it sounded close to it. Did he mean her? She took a close look at the woman… who wore her silver hair in twin braided buns… and screamed in terror and flew out of the room.

 

Knight-Commander and First Enchanter swore and took off after the speeding child, who’d made her way down the hall, yelling. “No hit me no more!”

 

Ser Alren looked up at the sound of the commotion and spotted the girl. She ran toward him and then hid behind his chainmail skirt, still sobbing. Wynne tried approaching them, only for the child to scream again. She sighed and shot a defeated look at the First Enchanter. The men favored the templar with a questioning look.

 

“Er, apologies Knight-Commander, First Enchanter,” he stammered. “This one was taken from… a less than… ideal situation. Near as I can tell, the minder used this one to take her frustrations out on. The minder wore her hair like yours, Senior Enchanter. Perhaps that reminded her?”

 

In the end, the templar was roped into helping get the kids to the kitchen to feed them while the leaders hashed out alternate plans. He noticed the cook writing something down before bringing something to the younglings. Their eyes grew round as warm food was set in front of them and were told to dig in. Afterward, one of the elven mages, a woman, came to retrieve the new students and led them away. As he tromped his way to a guest room on one of the upper floors, the templar hoped they’d settle in alright.

 

Freshly bathed and in her first new set of sleeping clothes ever, the little girl dozed off in a bed that wasn’t a pokey straw-filled mattress that night. It was warm and she didn’t have to share it with anyone. There were no angry people yelling, or bottles of smelly drink that made people even more angry and yell-y. This place was nice.


	2. Frogs, Elocution Lessons, and Tests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes and young Sevarra adjusts to life in the Circle.

**10 Kingsway 9:16 Dragon. Kinloch Hold.**

 

Progress was slow, but steady. Enchanter Renata Tabris had been assigned to the pair of 5 year-olds who’d come to the tower in Solace. Neither of them could count or knew any letters. They weren’t the first students to come to the Circle illiterate, and they probably wouldn’t be the last. For now, their lessons would focus on the mundane things: reading, writing, counting, and build from there. They were too young to really have lessons about magic stick, yet.

 

Giggling drew her out of her musings. She sighed when she saw what caused their mirth. _Another_ frog. Maker’s breath! Every time one of them got to go outdoors, they’d manage to smuggle one into the tower! Scooping up the amphibian and putting it in a glass bowl with a bit of water and some rocks, she gave them a soft scold when they whined.

 

“You can have your froggy back _after_ the lesson is done,” she said. She’d have to find a way to release it back into the wild later. It would be time for the little creature to hibernate in a few short weeks.

 

She had them stand at the slate board and begin drawing letters. The boy, Jowan, was quite a chatterbox, once he realized he was safe. The little girl, Sevarra, was content to let her friend do the talking most of the time. When she did speak, it was hard to understand. The poor thing had an accent so thick that it could be cut with an ax.

 

**27 Firstfall 9:16 Dragon.**

 

The elocution lesson was not going well. Sevarra was in tears and pouting in a corner, bits of snow fluttering around her. Considering the fact that they were indoors, in one of the rooms near the library, the snow was… concerning.

 

“You need to calm down!” the instructor, Enchanter Loren, scolded. “You can’t let your magic get out of control like that. What if you hurt someone with it?”

 

He was met with a tiny angry glare in reply. The room was getting even colder. He furrowed his brows as he sank to his knees to get closer to eye level. “Look at me,” he commanded.

 

Still glaring, she met his gaze. He coached the student through a deep breathing exercise. After several minutes, the room began warming up again. “Now try again. Just like we practiced earlier.”

 

She recited a nursery rhyme, half the words intelligible as Trade. The other half were garbled in the heavy burr of a stubborn accent. It was progress, but Maker have mercy if she had to chant any spells right now. Thankfully, that was still a while away, he hoped.

 

**5 Cloudreach 9:17 Dragon.**

 

She watched the glowing balls of light float near the older students. She felt a pang of envy. She wanted one, too! A pair of boys were “throwing” their wisps at each other and trying to catch them. Using wisps instead of proper balls at least vastly cut down on the number of broken windows and knocked over inkwells and candles.

 

“H-how they d-do that?” she asked her teacher, trying to say her words in a way the elder would understand.

 

Enchanter Tabris looked to where the girl was pointing. She assumed little Sevarra meant the glowing blue-white balls of light the lads were playing with. “Magic. Those are wisps.”

 

“H-how you make a w-wisp?”

 

Renata reconsidered her initial discouragement of the idea when she saw the longing in the girl’s eyes as they followed the balls of light in flight. The kid had basically come right out and asked for a lesson. She humored the child, and began demonstrating the gestures and words needed. A small green wisp hovered in the Enchanter’s palm.

 

Renata blinked several times in shock when Sevarra not only correctly mirrored her gestures and words, but had a tiny pink wisp floating in the palm of her hand. The girl giggled happily.

 

**1 Harvestmere 9:17 Dragon.**

 

New clothes! A dress with no patches on it, even! Not that the dresses she’d been given when she first came to the tower were bad, per se. They were just… ordinary. They weren’t colorful like the older people’s outfits. She spun around and grinned, admiring the blue and violet material as it twirled. Only, it wasn’t a dress, she’d been told. Boys wore them, too. They said they were called “robes.”

 

She and Jowan had practiced a lot. Renata had them perform several spells in front of the First Enchanter, who had smiled with approval. They were officially “apprentices” now, whatever that meant. Their teacher said they would be getting magic lessons, in addition to their lessons on words, writing, and numbers.

 

She summoned up her little wisp and trotted to the doors in search of Jowan. They would be getting to go outside today. Maybe they could find a frog? Or maybe a leaf that had changed color? She had a brown leaf and a yellow leaf in the little box of treasures she kept under her bunk. Maybe they’d find a red one today.

 

**19 Haring 9:18 Dragon.**

 

They were devouring chapter books, not caring that there weren’t many pictures to be had. Renata stood back with a smile. It didn’t seem all that long ago that the pair had come here, not knowing a lick of reading or writing. They would go far if things kept going like this. Soon enough, it would be time for them to have a new teacher.

 

She sighed and pushed the small touch of wistfulness away and settled her attention on the new student standing nearby: a shy little girl called Lea, from one of the villages near Gwaren’s capital. She needed to assess her before she could be assigned to anyone.

 

**28 Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon.**

 

She sat on the bench, trying to be as small as possible. It had been an accident, really. They were just wisps, why did the enchanter freak out so badly? He had been the one to demand she “put some effort into it!” She thought he would have been impressed that she managed to summon four wisps at once! Instead, Enchanter Wulff had all but screamed like a small girl and dragged her to the First Enchanter’s office. She was sat outside said office while listening for the muffled “discussion” that went on behind the closed door.

 

“Something needs to be done! She’s a danger! A 10-year-old managing to call that many means...”

 

“Finish that sentence with what I think you were going to say and I promise you will regret it, enchanter,” Irving said flatly.

 

The words ‘demon bait’ died in Enchanter Wulff’s throat. He took a deep breath. “What I mean is she is… not safe. The other students are in danger around her. You need to think about all the others in the class, too. The child is one stroke of bad luck from possession. Something needs to be done.”

 

Irving leveled a look the enchanter’s way. “Something will be done, I assure you.”

 

“The rite?” the other man asked softly.

 

Wulff could’ve sworn he heard a rumble of thunder to accompany the First Enchanter’s glare. The hairs on the back of his neck were certainly standing on end.

 

“I believe you’ve said your peace, enchanter. Return to your class. I will take care of the situation. As of this moment, Miss Amell is no longer under your charge.”

 

She looked up quizzically when Enchanter Wulff emerged from the office and briskly walked down the hall from which he’d come. He hadn’t even bothered to look at her. Then she was summoned into the office. He asked her to repeat the incident that had caused her teacher concern. Hesitantly, she summoned the wisps again. The sight of four tiny pink balls of light hovering around her shoulders hadn’t made the First Enchanter go bug-eyed. He chuckled, in fact.

 

He rose from his desk and patted her shoulder. “I would be careful about showing that trick off to anyone else. They’re not used to someone so young being able to do something like that. Tomorrow, you will meet with Enchanter Whitebark. You will take a test with him and we will find you a new teacher.”

 

She frowned. She’d liked Wulff, he’d been nice to her until the incident that day. “Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No, child. Does a plant do anything wrong when it starts to bloom? Your magic just started to bloom earlier than what your old teacher is used to,” he answered.

 

After she’d trotted away to the kitchens to take lunch with the rest of the apprentices, he sighed and sat down. It seemed that spirits were fond of that particular student. Most apprentices like that seemed to do rather well as healers. He rubbed his chin in thought. There were two Harrowed healers in the tower: Wynne and Alara. Wynne had her hands full with a student at the moment. Alara, however, had gone three years with no student. Her most recent one, Geoff, had passed his Harrowing and been transferred to Ostwick.

 

He smirked to himself. It was decided, then. Unless young Sevarra proved to have a particularly strong affinity for some other type of magic, she would be sent to study with Alara.

 

**29 Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon.**

 

The pair of apprentices made their way from the dorms toward the second floor of the tower for a rare occurrence: a shared class. They chatted quietly but excitedly as they made their way to Enchanter Whitebark's lab. While Jowan and Sevarra were nearly inseparable and acted like siblings, they usually were not put in the same classes at the same time.

 

"Do you think it's true?" he asked.

 

"What do you mean?" she replied.

 

"That old man Whitebark turns people who fail the test into frogs?"

 

"Do you hear any croaking?" she said.

 

"Who's to say they don't wind up in the kitchen afterward?"

 

"I think you listen to Keili too much," she grinned.

 

Jowan was more or less an easygoing lad, and while he may have struggled with a few mundane academic things, he had no issues with any instructor he was placed with. Sevarra was a completely different case. While bright and very curious, she proved to be fearful and jumpy if not comfortable with an instructor. Considering that she'd been afraid of Senior Enchanter Wynne of all people, it had taken some time to find a master that was both willing to take on a student and one that didn't make the girl flee in terror. Most recently, she'd studied under Enchanter Ewane Wulff.

 

"Do you think it'll be scary?" she asked.

 

"Regular scary or scary-to-you scary?" he teased. They began climbing the stairs.

 

That particular day was remarkable for a reason. The pair of apprentices had been found to have learned enough of the basics to be placed with a master to pursue more specialized study. Before that could happen, they would have to be tested to see what, if any, magical affinities they had. Enchanter Whitebark, an extremely old and cranky elven man, was the one who usually administered those tests. Most students underwent such testing around their 6th year. Being all of 10 years old each, the pair were a bit precocious magic-wise.

 

With a grunt, the pair opened the heavy doors that stood guard over the second level of the tower. The Templar stationed at the other side turned to give the kids a bored look. When asked the way to Whitebark's lab, he pointed to the left and then returned to his silent watch over the doorway. After going in a circle a couple of times, they finally found themselves stood before a reinforced door of metal. It had to be the place. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Jowan knocked.

 

A bespectacled elven man with a shock of white hair and a tattoo covering the left side of his face opened the door. His wrinkly skin was reminiscent of tree bark.

 

"Yes, yes, what is it?" the elderly man snapped.

 

"Enchanter Whitebark? Uh, um, we're-- we're here for testing?" the smaller female student answered.

 

The elder peered at the pair over the top of his spectacles with skepticism. He scanned the parchment in his hand.

 

"Jowan Redfort? Sevarra Amell?" he inquired, still scowling. _These are younglings_ , he thought, _surely this is a joke._

 

The pair nodded.

 

The elf sighed heavily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Get in. Let's get this over with."

 

Slamming the great door shut behind the students, he gestured a gnarled hand at a pair of stools against the far wall. "Have a seat."

 

Once the pair had crawled on to the stools and set their gazes on him, he began.

 

"Against my better judgment, your instructors have deemed you ready for more advanced study. As you may or may not know, as they've sent you to me far too early for my taste, nearly every mage has an affinity of some sort, something that comes easily to them. Depending on what that is for you, it will determine who you will be apprenticed to, **regardless** of any personal issues." He scowled at the girl with the final part of his explanation.

 

The enchanter paced around like a predator sizing up his prey. He pointed a knotted finger at Jowan. "You, boy, to the center. You'll start."

 

The enchanter barked a variety of commands, bidding the student to cast a spell with each one. The boy struggled with the Primal the school the most but managed to summon up some form of each requested school. Oddly enough, hexing was as simple as breathing.

 

"Enough. Sit. You, girl. To the center," he curtly said.

 

"Earth." A large stone came into being before sailing across the room and hitting a target dummy.

 

"Spirit." The girl furrowed her brows and muttered an incantation as a sparkling sphere enveloped her.

 

"Creation." A small wisp coalesced above her head as the sparkling sphere faded from sight.

 

"Cold." A blast of snow and ice erupted from her fingers in an instant, covering the target dummy in rime.

 

The elf scratched his chin. She didn't seem to have to focus or concentrate for that last one...

 

"Fire," he said deliberately. This could be interesting. He'd not had an apprentice of his own in a while...

 

She visibly quivered in fear but tried to channel a spell. A rather pathetic flame more suited to a bedside candlestick glowed from her palm.

 

"You can do better than that!" the elder spat. "Show me a real, respectable flame!"

 

Sweat dripping down her brow, she summoned a palm sized-flame into her hand. She looked upon it with dread.

 

"A real flame. Do not waste my time with miniatures." He would come to regret those words.

 

A lusty gout of flame burst from her hand and toward the target dummy. She screamed in fear, shaking her aim away from the practice dummy and randomly unintentionally setting several vials standing upon a counter alight. A trio of small explosions echoed in the lab, taking a more than generous portion of the countertop with them. The force of the explosions caused a variety of gear and experiments to fall from storage cabinets, spewing their contents upon the floor. One of the jars had held an acidic liquid, which consequently ate through the finely woven carpet.

 

The Templar from stairwell doorway burst into the room in a panic. "Enchanter, is everything alright?"

 

Whitebark shook with fury. "NO. It is not! My lab! My poor lab! Look what the miscreant did to it!"

 

The Templar scowled and grabbed Jowan by the ear. "What did I tell you about your pranks, boy?"

 

"It wasn't my fault this time, really," Jowan protested.

 

"It-- it was me," Sevarra hung her head and stepped forward. "I didn't mean to."

 

Sighing, the Templar grabbed each apprentice roughly by a hand and lead them away, trailed by an Enchanter Whitebark who was nearly foaming at the mouth with fury. The apprentices were forced to wait in the hallway as Whitebark ranted at the First Enchanter behind closed doors. Sevarra sat on the floor with knees under her chin. She could've sworn she heard the word "Tranquility" being tossed around, whatever that meant.

 

"ENOUGH! The lab shall be repaired," First Enchanting Irving's raspy voice flowed out from the opening door of his office. "If I hear you toss that word about again regarding apprentices so young, there will be consequences. Away with you."

 

Whitebark stomped away in a cloud of muttered curses. Irving came to where the browbeaten students were waiting and knelt to meet their gazes. "Jowan, you may go. You did nothing wrong. You'll meet your new master tomorrow."

 

Jowan all but scampered away.

 

Sevarra was ushered into the office and then quizzed about what had happened in the lab. Irving sat for a while, a hand playing with his beard as he digested the story. After several minutes of thought, he spoke.

 

"Tomorrow, you are going to meet Enchanter Alara in the Infirmary. You will study with her for a time. I trust there will be no further explosions or other such fire-induced mishaps?"

 

The girl nodded somberly.

 

**30 Bloomingtide 9:21 Dragon.**

 

Alara sighed raggedly as she left her quarters after preparing herself for the day. She tromped her way to the infirmary. She’d been an Enchanter for more than two decades. Teaching wasn’t something new to her. It’d been several years since her last apprentice had passed his Harrowing and been transferred to Ostwick. She hadn’t quite gotten used to the quiet but had made peace with it.

 

Until late the previous night.

 

The First Enchanter had informed –-informed, NOT requested!-- her that she would be receiving a new apprentice. Normally choosing a student was up to the mentor in question. Normally. It was within the First Enchanter’s rights to assign students if he or she felt the need to do so. Irving had been quite firm that the healer had no choice, the matter had been settled before she’d been consulted.

 

She had balked when Irving had revealed who the child was. The Amell girl was known for skittishness, around older adult women in particular. Word had also reached her about what had taken place in Whitebark’s lab. Gossip had swift feet in the tower. What had she done to deserve being chained down with a problematic student?

 

Opening the Infirmary’s door revealed her Tranquil helper, Lonna, dutifully sweeping the floor while a small dark-haired girl kicked her feet back and forth in the air as she sat on the bench on the opposite side of the room. The girl looked up and regarded her with owlish silver eyes. She was… small, even for 10 years old.

 

 _Maker, why did he give me a 10-year-old?_ Most students found ready to begin advanced study were around 14 years old. Irving had insisted the girl was ready for advanced learning, in spite of her issues.

 

“ _I expect you to do your utmost, Enchanter. It’s not every day one is given the chance to mentor a prodigy. She can already cast multiple spells from each of the schools of magic with ease,”_ he had wheedled.

 

“Right. I suppose the First Enchanter told you to be here,” the Enchanter said flatly.

 

The youngster nodded silently.

 

“Come along, then. We need to see what you can do,” she said in a resigned voice.

 

“First Enchanter says I’m not allowed to do fire spells until he says otherwise,” the apprentice said quietly after scooting off the bench to follow the woman.

 

Right. Pyrophobia. Whitebark had foolishly ignored the child’s discomfort and browbeat her into calling a flame larger than she could safely handle, with calamitous results to his lab and equipment.

 

“We have flint and tinder for that here,” Alara said dryly.

 

“Are those spell components?” the girl asked.

 

The healer chuckled. A look at the apprentice’s face let her know the child had been serious. “Er, no. Just the mundane way to start up a small flame.”

 

 _She already knew about components? Just what had Wulff been getting up to with this one?_ She pushed open the door leading to an empty storeroom. She selected this room just in case they were in danger of another “incident” taking place. The elder motioned for the student to go in.

 

She ran the girl through several paces of spellwork. Irving hadn’t lied, she managed several spells from each of the four main branches of magic. The girl’s demonstration of spirit magic had consisted of dispelling the healer’s Arcane Shield. That had both taken aback and amused the Enchanter. Entropy spells had been the weakest of the girl’s spellwork. Not unusual, everyone had something they weren’t the best at.

 

Alara pursed her lips. _Definitely beyond what the average fifth-year apprentice would be capable of._

 

“Girl, have you ever cast a healing spell?”

 

The apprentice shook her head, making her black braid swish to and fro. “Nuh-uh. They wouldn’t let me read the books with that spell in them.”

 

“I’ll do one better. Watch closely.”

 

Eager owlish eyes followed every movement of her hands, entranced. Small hands mimicked the motions after seeing them in their entirety. Another demonstration, the elder making certain her chant was clear and intelligible, was just as raptly observed. There was an eager gleam in the youngster’s eyes.

 

“Now you try.”

 

The casting was slow but successful. A pale green light washed over the elder as the spell had its intended effect. A smile quickly burst on to the girl’s face as she bounced on her feet in celebration. Enthusiasm, that she could work with.

 

“Good enough.” She motioned the apprentice to follow as she went to the Infirmary’s small alcove that served as a sort of library. Pulling out an older edition of _Reginald’s Review of Restoration and Regeneration_ , she handed it to the girl.

 

“We shall start with the basics. I expect the first two chapters read by tomorrow morning. You may… what was your name?”

 

“Sevarra, ma’am,” came the reply.

 

“Right. Sevarra. You may run along now. Go study. Stay out of trouble.”

 

The girl nodded and scurried away, no doubt to some favorite hiding spot to read. The Enchanter pursed her lips and then went to retrieve her dust-covered book of lesson plans. She had to do some studying of her own.


	3. A Poultice Can't Mend a Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes on and Sevarra proves to be an eager student. One day, Templars bring a brand new student into the infirmary while she's studying there.

“Girl, come here,” the healer barked. Her newest --and youngest-- apprentice timidly shuffled next to the greying enchanter.

 

“Do you see this?” the elder indicated the somewhat deep slash on the Templar’s arm. The bleeding had stopped but the flesh was raw and irritated. It looked like just a couple layers of skin had been damaged, but nothing beyond that.

 

The owl-eyed youngster nodded, looking at the wound not with distaste or fear, but something akin to curiosity. She’d learned the most basic of healing spells with little effort, so the healer thought it time to demonstrate something of a more hands-on method for treating wounds.

 

“This fellow, while unlucky to have gotten hurt, is fortunate in that the cut was made with a sharp blade that was not jagged. See how the edges are nice and even, how they line up nearly perfectly?”

 

Another nod, making the girl’s black braid swing gently side to side.

 

“Bring me the small metal box to your left, child. Not everything needs to be tended to with magic.” She accepted the offered bronze-toned box and fished out a taper point needle and a length of suture thread. After threading the needle, Alara continued.

 

“Simple wounds like this can be treated with simple methods. We shall stitch the edges together and give some medicine for the pain. If he keeps the area clean and dry, it will heal nicely within a couple of weeks.”

 

“You’re going to sew him up? Like a tear on a robe?” a small voice asked in confusion.

 

“Indeed,” the elder woman hummed as she began to suture the wound’s edges together.

 

The girl watched, amazed that the templar hadn’t made a single sound in discomfort.

 

“But what about the string? What if he gets bored of it and wants a different color later?” she asked.

 

The healer had to pause and blink in confusion for a moment, then resumed stitching. “He’ll only need the one set of stitches if he’s lucky.”

 

“But what if he wants a pretty color for spring?”

 

The templar couldn’t hold back any longer and chuckled. Alara tried and failed to glare at him, and waited for him to become still again.

 

“They aren’t permanent. His body will slowly knit this cut back together. These stitches are only going to be there to hold the pieces together while it does that. Once that happens, the stitches will be taken out. We don’t embroider people.”  


“Oh,” the apprentice said softly. The idea of stitching people’s injuries became a little less interesting.

 

(2 years later)

 

She was excited. Mistress had given her a new book to study last week. It talked about medicines. She carried the yellowing copy of _Annika’s Practical Applications of Herbs and_ _Minerals_ under her arm as she trotted to the infirmary for that day’s lesson with her mentor.

 

Magical energy practically danced in the air, giving a faint, but not unpleasant, hum to the ears of those sensitive to it. Ask five mages what it sounded like, however, and you’d get six different answers. To twelve-year-old Sevarra’s ear, it sounded like half-heard hints of a song, as if a musician were playing his lute several rooms away, the walls of stone muffling most of the notes. She knew at least one of the Templars played the instrument, she’d heard him plucking at it every Sunday after the chapel’s Service and supper were both done.

 

Not everything taught in the Circle was related to magic or how to avoid becoming an abomination, however. At least twice a week, most students were made to attend sermons in the tower’s chapel given by the Revered Mother or one of her senior Sisters. Most days of the week, the healer’s apprentice, along with all the other apprentices in the tower, had lessons on reading, writing, history, oration, arithmetic and other practical matters to go along with the lessons on magical theory and practice. “Magic is a tool, but not the only tool,” as her mistress was fond of saying.

 

The smell of fresh earth and plants greeted her as she rounded the corner and opened the infirmary’s doors. Lonna, Mistress’ Tranquil helper, was gently lifting potted plants from a small wagon and placing them onto one of the workbenches that ringed the workroom. The apprentice knotted her brows as she searched her memory for the name of the plant. _Slyvus Vulgaris._ Common Elfroot.

 

“Ah, there you are, girl. Did you finish the assigned chapters?” a warm alto voice asked as its owner came into view, carrying a wooden box that gave off tiny clinking sounds caused by the wobbling of the small glass vials within it as she walked across the room.

 

A nod of the head.

 

“Good, good. Let us see if you studied well.”

 

Several potted plants were pointed at and the apprentice identified them. Chamomile. Embrium. Elfroot. Ginger. Arbor Blessing. She didn’t recognize the mushrooms.

 

“Deep Mushrooms, girl. Not an easy find in the part of the kingdom we call home. And they look very similar to these ones here,” the enchanter flipped the student’s book to an illustration in the back, “called fittingly ‘Destroying Angels.’ Look under the cap. See how this one here does not have any speckles? That is how you can tell Deep Mushroom apart from Destroying Angels. The angels are always speckled underneath.”

 

Eventually, talk of identifying plants gave way to the proper preparation of herbs. Embrium had to be stored just so for a certain amount of days before it could be made into a powder. Arbor Blessing had to be in a tightly sealed jar once plucked until the moment it was needed to make a tonic or tincture. Fail to do that and the delicate leaves and blossoms would lose their medicinal value in a matter of hours.

 

The enchanter pressed a small stone mortar and pestle into the apprentice’s hands.

 

“And now for a bit of hands-on work. We’ll be making healing poultices today. See this fine specimen of common elfroot? Pluck the leaves. Just a few for now. We’ll be grinding them into a paste.”

 

Doing as she was told, the student found the process oddly soothing. The crushed elfroot leaves gave off a pleasant scent that made her think of sunshine and old books for some reason. Mistress nattered on about elfroot, about how the leaves were not edible by humans or elves, but that the roots were. That poultices were applied topically, never ingested.

 

“Why can’t they be ingested?” she dared to ask.

 

“Elfroot poultices are made from the leaves, girl. Don’t go drinking one unless you’re looking for a quick way to induce vomiting. If you want to drink a curative, you’d need a potion. We make potions and tonics from the roots, not the leaves.”

 

The next step in poultice-making quickly revealed the other reason why they shouldn’t be imbibed. It smelled stronger than anything brewed by the Tranquil for the adults to drink at supper time.

 

“Now we mix the paste with this distillation agent. Two parts agent for every one part of paste. This agent is meant only for use on the outside of the body. Any fool who had more than a couple mouthfuls of it could risk going blind,” the enchanter said.

 

_That would explain why the poultice bottles were so tiny,_ the apprentice thought. They looked like they’d hold a bit less than two mouthfuls worth of liquid.

 

By the end of the afternoon, the pair had made more than three dozen poultices. Alara had a small half-smile upon finding each of them to be of acceptable quality. The bottles would be carefully packed and sent off on the ferry the next morning and delivered to the Chantries in nearby villages to use as they saw fit.

 

(A year later)

 

The infirmary was a bit busier than usual that day. A new Templar recruit had caught the wrong end of a sword during training that morning. An elderly Templar had taken a fall down a flight of stairs and had broken a leg. A pair of 4th year apprentices were in to have burned hands and arms treated, the result of a poorly controlled fire spell. And the newest arrival was lanky young man with a mop of honey blond hair who looked liked he'd been mistaken for a cut of beef by a meat tenderizer. Whispered rumors said that he was a new student who'd resisted the Templars taking him into custody.

 

"Ser Marris, please," Enchanter Alara scolded, "hold still. We cannot set the bone if you keep wriggling so!"

 

"Mistress, should I get the liquid spirits for him?" her apprentice, Sevarra, chirped quietly.

 

"BAH! Liquor is the tool of demons!" the elderly man spat. "I'll not have any dealings with either!"

 

Alara sighed raggedly, glowering at the stubborn man. "No, dear. Get me the leather strap for him to bite down on. If he insists on doing things the hard way, I'll indulge him. Perhaps it will remind him to be more careful in the future!"

 

The young teenage apprentice looked up at her mistress with eyes like dinner plates in disbelief. A furrowed brow glare sent the girl scurrying off to the supply closet to find the leather strap. She returned moments later with an obviously well-used strap of leather held reluctantly between thumb and forefinger. Sevarra thought the thing would be better served being burnt in the fireplace instead of going into someone's mouth.

 

Grabbing the strap, Alara waved the girl off. "Go check on the others. I'm certain they're not as bad off."

 

Prowling out of the small room the elderly Templar was being treated in, she began her rounds. One of the Tranquil helpers was aiding the stabbed recruit adequately, having finished cleaning and stitching the young man's wound. Senior Enchanter Wynne had fluttered in to see to the 4th year apprentices, both to heal their burns and deliver a sorely needed lecturing about the dangers of playing with fire. This left the honey-haired mystery boy to be checked on.

 

Sevarra knocked on the door frame as she entered the room. She gasped in shock as her eyes took in the sight of the patient. Two blackened eyes, a bloodied nose that was possibly broken, a split lip, bruises all over his visible skin and several fingers looked suspiciously broken.

 

"Holy Maker! Who or what did this to you?" she asked.

 

A pair of despondent warm brown eyes rose to meet her gaze, but the boy said nothing. He flinched as she approached the stool he was sat upon.

 

"I won't hurt you," she crooned. "I'm here to help. My mistress is the healer. May I?" she asked, reaching for one of his hands.

 

She felt him wince as she traced her hands along the first and middle fingers of his left hand. They were broken. From how the calluses were located on that hand, she was willing to bet it was his dominant one. _What brute would do such a thing to a mage?_ she thought. At least, she suspected he was magically inclined. His lanky build didn't have the preferred makings of a Templar.

 

Closing her eyes, the apprentice envisioned a small cloud of bluish-white wisps swirling around the injured hand she held in both of her own, wordlessly asking for the broken bones to be set back into their proper places. A cold aura radiated from her palms as she heard the soft clicks of bones moving. Opening her eyes, she inspected the fingers, finding them once again straight, if swollen. The boy opened and closed his hand hesitantly. He met her gaze with surprise and offered his other hand. Smiling, she repeated the process.

 

"Forgive me, but this is going to hurt a bit," she apologized before setting his nose. A click and a yelp followed her swift movement. After she was satisfied that the nose was done with bleeding, she dug into a cabinet and offered him a bottle of brownish liquid.

 

"Brandy. For the pain, have a sip."

 

Eyeing the girl questioningly, he had a quick gulp. His puffy eyes widened and he coughed a few times before returning the bottle.

 

"Yeah, it tends to do that. But it'll make the pain seem less in a little while," she shrugged and put the brandy away.

 

"This may seem a little weird, but trust me," she said as she stood behind him and covered his eyes with her palms. Willing a portion of the coldness that was always eager to be around her into her hands, she held them in place for a while. "If nothing else, it'll help the swelling."

 

"How are you doing that?" he asked after several minutes.

 

"Magic. Everyone here's magic. Well, except for the Tranquil and the Templars. This is a Circle." she answered. She moved her hands from his face and inspected around his eyes, hoping to not have caused any frostbite.

 

"A Circle?"

 

"Yeah. A place where mages are safe from the crazy people who want to hurt us just for being what we are. I'm guessing you ran into some of those crazy people."

 

He frowned. "The crazy people who did this wore red skirts and plate armor."

 

Sevarra bit her lip. Templars did this? Why? They were mage protectors! They only hurt evil mages, or so she'd been told from her first days in the Circle. This boy didn't seem evil to her.

 

"Well... they aren't supposed to do that. They're supposed to be our protectors. I'm sorry," she frowned.

 

Enchanter Alara walked into the room, causing the conversation to drop. She looked to her apprentice questioningly before examining the patient. "I smell brandy."

 

"Yes, Mistress. I gave him some."

 

The elder mage scowled at her apprentice. "This is not a tavern."

 

"But Mistress! Look at him! No poultice was going to take the edge off that! He only had one swig!"

 

"One swig for people your age is too much, in most cases. Do you want the poor thing to have a hangover?"

 

Sevarra hung her head. "No, Mistress."

 

Alara held and inspected one of the boy's hands. "This was broken. The swelling says recently. But the bones feel like they're supposed to." She wore a tiny smile. "Nicely done, youngling."

 

The apprentice blushed but kept her gaze to the floor.

 

The greying mage lifted the boy's chin with a finger, inspecting the rest of his face. "I see you tried your hand at the nose. Most of the way there, but it needs some work." She whispered a spell, causing her hands to briefly flash with a pale green light. Several moments later, the young man sighed in relief.

 

The elder mage quizzed the young man about a number of things. He gave mostly single word replies. His less-puffy-than-before eyes were drooping sleepily. Clicking her tongue, she motioned her apprentice over.

 

"This is why I don't give younger people the spirits. We'll have to hope he remembers what happened to him when he wakes up. Help him to the apprentice dorms while he can still walk. Put him in a bunk and then find some willow tree bark tablets. He'll need them when he wakes up."

 

Sevarra nodded and pulled one of the boy's arms over her shoulder. Before leaving, she turned to Alara. "Mistress, he said men in red skirts and plate armor did this to him."

 

Alara frowned and nodded, waving her student away. It wouldn't be the first time a new student came to the Circle in such a condition. She just wished it hadn't happened when one of her most sensitive apprentices was present. The enchanter knew from sad experience that wounds of the body healed much sooner than wounds of the mind. Her apprentice, while a quick learner and working magics a few years beyond her peers, didn't understand that yet. The girl looked like a kicked puppy when confronted with a pain she couldn't soothe or dull. That boy would need time before his mental wounds scabbed over.

 

Fishing the bottle of brandy out of the cabinet, Alara had a swig.

 

"A bit early for that, isn't it?" Wynne asked, leaning against the door frame.

 

"Better this than finding the men who worked over that poor boy and setting them on fire," Alara grumbled. "Not to mention that soon I'll need to have a very uncomfortable conversation with my student. What 13 year old sees that and comes out of it the same? Just because her magic has grown doesn't mean the rest of her has caught up. I still question Irving's wisdom giving me such a young one."

 

"At least that will make it easier to instill good habits, no?"

 

Alara snorted. "She mended bones with magic today. I hadn't even touched that subject yet. His hands were mangled. I come in to check on her and they've been set and knitted. How long until she gets bored and I have to keep her distracted like a mabari?"

 

"I don't envy you," the senior enchanter smirked.

 

\---

 

Jowan caught up to his best friend as she was helping a blond string bean of a boy to the apprentice quarters.

 

"Hey! Who's that?" he asked.

 

"Dunno his name. He was beaten badly before he got here."

 

Jowan frowned and draped the new guy's free arm over his shoulder to help carry him to the empty bunk. Counting to three, they plopped him on to the bed.

 

"Hey, new guy. What do we call you?" he said.

 

One sleepy eye opened. "Anders," he mumbled, then dozed off.

 

Jowan cocked an eyebrow. "Who names their kid after mountains?"

 

Sevarra sat on an empty bunk and kicked her feet idly, frowning. "He said Templars did that to him. He didn't deserve that. I thought Templars were good?"

 

"Good for being gargoyles in the halls, maybe," Jowan snorted.

 

It would be many weeks before the new boy, Anders, would say anything more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, the age difference between Anders and the Warden is months, not years.


	4. Just Another Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something has Enchanter Alara highly annoyed, also, she's planning something.

"Mistress?"

 

The inquiry hung in the air, unanswered. The infirmary was quiet. The only sign of life was the Tranquil helper, Lonna, who busied herself with dusting a shelf filled with obscure ingredients. There were no unfortunate souls waiting to be seen for healing that day, a bit of a rarity. Frowning, the apprentice searched each of the examination rooms but found nothing but the calm silence of the afternoon in each one.

 

Defeated, Sevarra returned to the main room. "Lonna, have you seen my Mistress?"

 

Pausing her task only briefly, the Tranquil replied, "Enchanter Alara is consulting with Senior Enchanters. She requested that I tell you to replenish the stock of large poultices and the anti-venoms."

 

With a sigh, the apprentice began rummaging about for the ingredients she would need. Poultices and antivenoms were simple to make, they were dull and old hat. Many things were becoming boring. The simple sicknesses and injuries that made up the majority of what she saw as the healer's apprentice held no great appeal. That baby she'd witnessed being born the other week, however, that had been different and exciting... and a little bit scary. She still recalled the anguished mother's crying as the infant was hastened away by one of the female Templars. The young enchanter hadn't been allowed to see, hold, or even name her own child, a girl. Rumor had it that the young mother was being sent away to another tower.

 

\---

 

"So, you're admitting that training a student is getting beyond your skill. Perhaps age is catching up with you," one of the Senior Enchanters said with an oily smile.

 

It took everything for the Enchanter to retain her composure in front of her superiors. There'd been a reason she'd not been promoted to Senior Enchanter years ago, but she was trying her best to not let her tongue ruin the present situation. She'd been damned lucky that the Senior Enchanters even humored her with this meeting.

 

"I did not say that," Alara stated, "I am, however, saying that I recognize when a student requires more of a challenge. All I am asking is that my request be considered. Doing this could only win us goodwill from the surrounding communities."

 

"You say that education and developing goodwill is your goal, but is it, really?" the Senior Enchanter with the oily smile, Uldred, asked. "For all we know, this could just be a ploy. There have been rumors, upsetting ones, that one of our own has turned to blood magic."

 

 _Deep breath, take a deep breath, don't let him get to you_ , the healer thought to herself.

 

"I fail to see how running a temporary clinic to heal those in need is in any way a ploy. Andraste herself said 'Magic exists to serve man,' or have you forgotten the Chant of Light, hm? Nor did I suggest that those serving would be unsupervised. I've no issue with proper Templar oversight for this endeavor. But we would need permission to travel to the surrounding towns and villages. The common folk do not live here in this tower."

 

"Or perhaps in order to escape? Before something inconvenient comes to light?" Uldred smirked.

 

And there went the last of her patience.

 

"MAKER'S BREATH! I've served this Circle for over 30 years! How dare you accuse me of--"

 

"ENOUGH!" an elder woman's voice cut the verbal sparring short. Senior Enchanter Wynne favored both Uldred and Alara with glares. "Enchanter, we will discuss this amongst ourselves after a recess to allow sense to return to all parties. You will be informed if your request is forwarded to the First Enchanter. You may go."

 

Hands balled into fists at her sides, Alara quickly took her leave. Perhaps it had been foolish to even think of asking for such a thing, but she had needed to try. As she left the meeting room, the healer caught sight of the Knight-Captain. Ignoring the voice in her mind that said such an effort was wasted breath, she purposely made her way to the man. Maybe, just maybe, he could do something about a problem she'd had.

 

\---

 

It had been a bit of a challenge, sneaking away with a tray holding a slice of honey cake and a large mug of spiced tea. Nearly every soul in the tower made certain to come down to the dining hall to get a piece whenever the cooks made the treat. Almost every soul but the new boy. Jowan had made it his task to introduce his new friend to the confection. If honey cake couldn't cheer the lad up even a little bit, things were truly dire!

 

Coming to the door to the first set of apprentice dorms, Jowan carefully scanned to the left and right before entering. Living in such close quarters, elder students thought nothing of stealing from the newer ones. Honey cake was special, honey cake was sacred, damn it. No one was going to steal the new guy's piece, not if he could help it! The path being clear, he made a beeline for the morose boy sitting on a bunk in the corner.

 

"Hey there, Anders," he smiled. "Brought you something special. I think you'll want to try it."

 

Anders actually bothered to look at him but said nothing. Progress!

 

"This," pointing at the large slice of amber-brown cake, "is honey cake. One of the best things known to humanity! Oh, and a mug of cinnamon tea. Not everyone likes it, but me and Sevvy do. Worth a try. No tragedy if you don't like it, though. The kitchen always has black tea on hand."

 

Reverently, he set the tray on the nightstand nearest Anders. The honey-blond boy eyed Jowan for a moment before grabbing the tray. Was he going to do it? Was he actually going to willingly eat? First, a cautious tiny nibble taken from the fork. Anders raised his brows in surprise, then set about devouring the rest of the slice with gusto.

 

Jowan grinned. He knew honey cake would work.

 

\---

 

"I almost think you lot are TRYING to make my job difficult," Alara glowered at the man.

 

The Knight-Captain continued walking down the hall. Not one to be deterred, Alara followed him.

 

"Oh no, you don't! You're not getting away so easily!" the Enchanter cornered the man at the end of the hall. Her green eyes were flashing with irritation.

 

"Madam, this is highly irr--"

 

She cut him off with a waggled finger in his face. "You lot need to learn to use a bit of care in your duties! Yes, mages need to be watched over, but we do not require needless brutality! Most of us are sensible or can be reasoned with. Just because you have fists and weapons does not mean you need to use those as a first measure!"

 

"I do not know what you are talking ab--"

 

Her voice raised, cutting him off again. "I am speaking of that farm boy you lot brought in last month. I know for a fact that your pet, Brant, was leading that group. What was done to that child would have you both in chains, were he not a mage. The lad still does not speak. This makes it hard to teach him proper control over his magic!"

 

The Knight-Captain glared at the aging mage carping at him. As much as he detested the biddy's complaints, she did have a valid point. Ser Brant was prone to being... overzealous... in making sure mages came along quietly to the tower.

 

"What offends me most is what your pet's reckless behavior has done to my apprentice!"

 

"Beg your pardon, ma'am?" he blinked in confusion. "Your girl never leaves the tower grounds. She has not raised any cause for concern in years. What could have bloody happened?"

 

"SHE was the one who cleaned up Brant's MESS. She saw the shape the boy was in before I had any chance to make things less... ugly. The girl isn't even fourteen. Because your man went rabid, she had to see that! She hasn't been the same since."

 

"Brant obviously felt threatened and acted accordingly."

 

"Bullocks. What could a twelve-year-old boy possibly do to scare a fully grown man who's been a trained Templar for years? Pop a pimple in a threatening manner?" Alara spat.

 

"Must you be so... vulgar?"

 

"I don't know. Must your pet be so brutal?" she replied.

 

"Is there a problem here?" a raspy male voice asked.

 

Alara spun around and caught sight of the First Enchanter and Senior Enchanter Uldred. She had to draw on her inner reserves to keep her face neutral. Something about the Senior Enchanter made her gut and bones cry out that something dangerous was nearby.

 

"No. No, First Enchanter," she said. "The Knight-Captain and I were just having a discussion."

 

"Quite right," the Templar added. "We'd just finished up." With that, he took his leave, walking briskly away.

 

Uldred was wearing that smarmy smirk. Oh, how she wanted to slap that look off of his face. Something about that man set her on edge. She had no proof of any wrongdoing, but if someone told her that he secretly engaged in forbidden or depraved things, she'd be hard-pressed to NOT believe the rumor-monger. There was something unnatural about someone beyond the rank of Enchanter who'd never taken on an apprentice, in her reckoning.

 

The First Enchanter arched a fluffy grey brow questioningly at Alara before taking his leave, Uldred following in his wake. The aging healer girt her teeth. He likely at least heard part of her ranting. No matter, it had been the truth, no matter how inconvenient. After taking several breaths to calm her thoughts, she began heading to the infirmary. Perhaps she could catch her girl before the supper bell sounded.

 

\---

 

Sevarra sighed and beheld the dozens of poultices she'd created that afternoon. Lonna had already boxed up and stored away the vials of anti-venom she'd crafted. Very boring work, but she knew it was useful. Sometimes the Templars got themselves into tight spots when out traveling or collecting new students and needed a little help. Venomous snakes had no care for who you were and bit everyone equally, given sufficient cause.

 

The door to the workroom slamming open caught the young mage by surprise, causing her to squeak and give a small jump. She turned to see what had caused it.

 

"Oh! Mistress! You'd startled me," she said.

 

Alara looked around and carefully shut the work room's door. The master and her student were alone and out of earshot.

 

"Is-- is there something wrong? Did I forget something?" the girl asked. The grave look the elder healer wore was intimidating.

 

Drawing near and locking her gaze with the younger mage's, the elder spoke quietly. "I am going to tell you something that must remain a secret. Do you understand?"

 

The apprentice nodded, uncertain about what exactly was going on.

 

"You need to stay away from Senior Enchanter Uldred. Not that he'd have cause to seek you out, he does not work with students. But you need to stay away, he is dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Mark my words."

 

"Oh-okay? I-I only study with Enchanter Gustav and you, though?"

 

Several heartbeats later, the bell sounded, calling the tower's residents to supper. Smiling half-heartedly, the healer clapped the girl on the shoulder. "Remember what I said. Now go eat."

 

Watching Sevarra as she scurried away toward the dining hall, Alara couldn't shake the feeling that something unsettling was going to happen.


	5. On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alara's plan has gone into action. She and her apprentice go traveling. Along the way, they meet someone new.

"This is highly irregular! I will not allow it!"

 

Irving furrowed his brows. "I was not aware that you'd become First Enchanter, Greagoir."

 

The Knight-Commander grumbled.

 

"If you are so concerned about what... mischief... a healer and a young apprentice can get up to while traveling from village to village, by all means, send your best men with them," Irving said. "The fact remains, however, that they have permission to do this project."

 

\---

 

"How do you feel about long walks in the countryside, girl?" the Enchanter asked, smirking.

 

"Uhm... I don't know, I haven't done that, ever," the apprentice answered.

 

"Well then, tomorrow will be your lucky day. Pack your things for a couple of weeks. We will be traveling to the nearby villages."

 

"What for?" Sevarra asked.

 

"To do what we do, but with the common people, of course. To show them that not all of us are the scary beasts they've convinced themselves we are. And, bluntly, because they need our help more than the people living in this tower." Alara stated.

 

"But I thought mages weren't allowed to leave the tower grounds? That we're here to keep us safe from... them, what they'd do to us?" the girl asked, voice quavering.

 

The enchanter felt her heart lurch. Fear of common people by mages and fear of mages by common people would only serve to bite both like a viper. It would seem commoners weren't the only ones in need of positive examples.

 

"The Maker did not give you magic so that you could spend all of your days stuffed up in some dark room scared of people. What do Andraste and the Chant of Light say about magic?" she asked.

 

"That it exists to serve man, never to rule over him."

 

"And going out and healing those in need accomplishes which part of that?" she prodded.

 

"Serving?"

 

"Good, I see you still have some of your mind functioning properly underneath all that fear and superstition. We will not be going alone, you silly thing. Templars will be with us at all times, so nothing... untoward happens." Alara said.

 

The elder clapped the apprentice on the shoulder. "Now then, get you off to the storeroom. Tell whoever's in charge that you need stout boots for travel. Oh and a tent and pack. Hurry now, we only have so much time until tomorrow morning!"

 

**

 

She was very curious. Mistress hadn’t been very forthcoming about why she needed to meet her near the stockroom. They had a trip to go on tomorrow. She was nervous enough as it was! They were going outside, leaving the island, in fact! They wouldn’t be back for at least a couple of weeks!

 

“Ah, there you are. We’ve been waiting,” the warm alto tones that belonged to her mistress said.

 

The apprentice peered around as a pair of female Tranquil came to join them. One had a measuring tape and quickly set about measuring Sevarra while the other wrote down the numbers the first one read off. She shot her mistress a confused look as one of the tranquil measured around her face. After the pair had drifted away to do whatever it was they were up to, she shook her head and scrubbed her face with a hand.

 

“Why… why were they doing that?”

 

“We will be out among the general populace. It’s important to have an entire set of traditional Circle attire on. To go without it is… unseemly,” the enchanter said.

 

“What attire? Do we have different robes for outside the tower?” the student asked in confusion.

 

“Not exactly,” the elder said with amusement. “Come, I will show you mine. Azha and Doris are busy making yours at the moment.”

 

Alara held up a square of delicate cloth in a dark gold tone with a pair of small chains draping off the top left and right corners.

 

“It is an old tradition, one that pre-dates the Circle, I am told,” the enchanter began. “We wear veils when outside the places the Circles call home. In ancient times, this was mostly for… safety reasons. In some of the… less friendly places in the world, savages would think nothing of hunting down a mage’s family and doing them harm simply for the ‘crime’ of having kinfolk who were born with magic.”

 

The younger mage shivered and wore an expression that looked much like a kicked puppy.

 

The enchanter sighed. “MOST places aren’t that savage anymore. But not all. But mostly, we wear it out of tradition and pride. Even the most backward of peasants know a veil and cowl usually mean a Circle mage. Letting them know what you are will help keep you safe. Some folk fling the word ‘apostate’ around entirely too freely.”

 

The elder carefully fastened the veil in place and then slid on the matching deep gold cowl. Only the woman’s sea-green eyes and her silvery bangs were visible once she was done. Somehow, she managed to make the covering look attractive.

 

Several hours later, Azha found the apprentice and helped her try on the freshly made deep violet veil and dark blue cowl. The material felt light and airy. She did a double-take she regarded her reflection in the mirror. Her silver eyes contrasted and stood out against the dark coverings and her black bangs that were peeking out. Both silver and gold were considered “witch eyes” by those who believed in old wives’ tales. But there was a kernel of truth to the stories: gold and silver eyes were much more commonly seen in Circles than anywhere else.

 

She had the sinking feeling that all the garb did was convey the message of “Yes, I am indeed a witch.” She silently hoped that they’d only run into friendly folk during their trip.

 

\---

 

"You're sure you're not being sent away?" Jowan asked apprehensively.

 

She fiddled with the violet veil covering the lower half of her face. Both of them had thought it strange to wear such a thing. Mages only really wore those if they were leaving the island, and most mages they knew rarely, if ever, left the bit of land that the Circle called home.

 

"It's more than just me going. My Mistress and several Templars are, too. Unless they're sending both of us away. But I'm pretty sure we'll be back," she said.

 

"Just... well, be careful, okay?"

 

"I'll do my best. You stay out of trouble. I'm not sure Anders can 'play innocent' enough to cover for you," she grinned.

 

Neither apprentice had gone more than a day without seeing the other from the time they'd first been grafted into the Circle. She hoped he would be alright while she was gone.

 

She found it difficult to sleep that night. The morning came all too soon, regardless. After quickly demolishing her breakfast, she'd nervously collected her things and waited by the main tower doors with her mistress. She could just barely see the elder mage’s smile behind her golden veil. The Knight-Commander had insisted that no less than six Templars accompany the pair on their task. Ser Brant and the Knight-Captain were among that number.

 

Sevarra squinted as the doors opened, feeling unfiltered sunlight on her face for the first time that week. The group made a brisk pace for the docks and the boat that waited to carry them to the other side of the lake. Setting foot on the ferry had awakened dim memories of the first time she'd ridden it at age five. It had just been her and a single Templar that time, a very kind and aging fellow known as Ser Alren. She'd been too weak to walk for most of the trip from Amaranthine to Kinloch, so he had let her ride the horse until she'd sufficiently recovered. He'd spun silly tales to set her mind at ease while they traveled from the coast to the countryside, and then to the shores of Lake Calenhad.

 

Disembarking, they made their way to the east. Being the shortest member of the party, the young mage often found herself hustling to keep pace with the much taller and much more physically fit knights. She'd been both exhausted and grateful when the Knight-Captain called for them to make camp for the night. Ser Brant had howled with laughter at the apprentice's attempts to set up a tent but offered neither advice nor assistance. Alara had silenced him with a glare and talked the girl through the process. Utterly spent, the apprentice barely had the energy to chew on a roll of bread before curling up in her tent to sleep.

 

The next morning, after breaking bread and gulping down some rather unremarkable tea, they walked a few miles until reaching the village of Galeford. The local chantry was easy to spot, it was the largest building in the village, complete with a bell tower. Sevarra stayed at the gate with the rest of the Templars while Enchanter Alara and the Knight-Captain went to the sanctuary door. The small troop of Templars with a pair of mages in tow had drawn more than a few curious looks from the local folk.

 

A tiny, heavily wrinkled woman who wore her snow-white hair in a pair of braided buns greeted the pair.

 

"In Andraste's name, be welcome, strangers. I am Revered Mother Bernice. What brings you to Galeford and the Chantry?"

 

The Knight-Captain bowed. "I greet you, Revered Mother. My men and I have come from the Circle of Magi--"

 

Mother Bernice blinked in confusion. "What business could mages possibly have here?"

 

The Templar continued, choosing to let being interrupted go. "We have in our company a pair of mages. Well, a mage and her apprentice. They are healers and wish to offer their talents to those in need, as is commanded in the Chant of Light."

 

"Let me see these 'mages'," Mother Bernice said, glowering.

 

Alara beckoned to her apprentice, who meekly cast her gaze to the ground as she hurried over. "I am Alara, Enchanter of the Circle of Magi. This is my apprentice. It is as our good Ser Knight says."

 

Mother Bernice eyed the pair, lifting the apprentice's chin with a gnarled hand, forcing the girl to make eye contact. She made to remove Sevarra’s veil, but a glare from the Knight-Captain made the biddy rethink that action. Moving her hand away, she favored the five Templars waiting at the gate with yet another glower.

 

"Why are there six Templars guarding a single mage and an apprentice? Have the good people of Galeford cause for concern?"

 

Sevarra privately wondered the same thing. Why were there six knights for only two mages?

 

"Not every mage is a war-mage, Mother. Healers are uncommon. It would be a great loss to the Circle should anything bad befall them. The Knight-Commander bade us to protect them. Our numbers are for the mages' safety," the Knight-Captain quickly said.

 

Mother Bernice snorted. "Nothing here could harm them. We are simple folk in Galeford."

 

"With all due respect, Mother," the Knight-Captain said, "you've never been the one to find a mage-child too late. To find a little one dead at the hands of a mob, when they should've been grafted into a Circle instead. It.. is not something I'd wish on any soul to see. People... do things.. when afraid."

 

Sevarra tried her hardest to hide the shiver of fear that went down her spine. She'd heard stories from other apprentices, how they'd been run out of their homes, or been pelted with stones, or worse until Templars were able to come to take them away to safety. She'd been rescued from a bad situation, too.

 

Mother Bernice's expression softened. Who knew a Templar could lay a guilt trip so well? "Very well. Come into the sanctuary. I'll have the Sisters help you set up."

 

The troop was ushered into the chantry. The Templars and Sisters busily moved pews out of the way and moved around tables, while the mages carefully counted and laid out poultices and other notions needed for treating injuries. Within the hour, people in need of healing and people who were simply curious began drifting in.

 

Alara took to things like a duck to water, offering kind words and spells of healing to the needy. Sevarra felt less secure; she felt like a creature in a cage, what with all the curious eyes watching her every move. Hadn't these folks ever seen a mage before? Did they expect her to sprout wings and fly away at any moment or some other silly thing?

 

A little boy, not more than 4, with a scraped knee, not really an injury that called for more than mundane measures, tugged at the sleeve of Sevarra's robe and asked for help. Somehow, the lad's large brown eyes had melted away the worst of her fear. Smiling, she kneeled down and whispered a healing spell over him. The little one's face lit up with wonder as he witnessed the skin knit itself together and leave not even a scab behind once the spell finished its work.

 

The rest of the day passed in a mostly calm manner, curious stares aside. While words of thanks had been nice to receive, the apprentice was more than ready to take her leave and have some peace when the Knight-Captain said it was time to leave to go set up a camp for the night. A plump elder woman had scoffed at the Templar over his words. It turned out she'd was the innkeeper's wife and demanded the visitors stay the night at her family's establishment as thanks. One of the sickened people treated had been her daughter-in-law. And so, her second night away from the tower, the young mage slept in the softest bed she'd ever experienced.

 

She didn't know what to think of the friendly farewells the village-folk gave the party when they took their leave the next morning. Were people really so... nice? The rest of the day was spent trekking east, further into the Bannorn. There had been a small bit of excitement in the form of a hungry wildcat taking them by surprise. The beast had been put down easily enough, but the apprentice spent the rest of the day feeling uneasy.

 

Every other day, the party found itself in a new village or hamlet. Hunter Fell, Southern Spring, Lone Hill, and several more places gladly allowed them to work their magic. In places big enough to have a proper chantry, the Knight-Captain could usually charm the local Revered Mother into allowing them to do their work in the safety of the chantry's walls. She'd been quite taken aback when the local baker in Lone Hill had graciously offered cinnamon sweet rolls to the travelers. She'd never had such a treat before and found herself wishing she could get the recipe to bring home to the tower's cooks.

 

The last settlement in their journey was an out of the way place called Jav's Folly. It was so small that it lacked a chantry and only had an elderly Sister to see to the hamlet's spiritual needs. While the Sister herself was quite cheery and welcomed their company, it had taken a while to find a safe space to work. Eventually, the local innkeeper had consented to the use of his dining hall. While the mages were busy healing a farmhand, they felt a familiar tingle. Magic was nearby, magic that was not their own.

 

"Do you sense that?" Alara asked quietly. "We have company."

 

Ser Brant nodded, wearing a grim expression. He left the inn and began searching. The apprentice looked to her mistress questioningly. Alara shook her head and motioned for the girl to return to binding a wound. Whatever would happen, would happen.

 

A scuffle happened near the stables. They heard only muffled shouts, but it was obvious that Ser Brant had come out the victor. Minutes later, the man returned with a boy who looked around ten years of age held firmly in his grip. The crowd inside the inn looked on with interest.

 

"Found him nosing around, sparked a little fire out of thin air," Brant said flatly.

 

The boy, an elf or elf-blooded upon closer inspection, wriggled and demanded to be let go.

 

The innkeeper scowled. "He's a stray. Showed up around here a few days after a group of Dalish went by. Not from 'round here."

 

"Might I speak with him?" Alara said calmly. She beckoned the pair over. Reluctantly, the Templar ushered the youngling over, then shoved him into a chair next to the elder mage.

 

"Do you have a name, young one? I am Alara," she said gently.

 

The boy scowled defiantly. After several long minutes, he muttered, "Taris."

 

"Where are you from, Taris?"

 

"Clan Nolall," he said softly.

 

Alara wore a sorrowful expression. "They made you leave? Or left you behind?"

 

Taris only nodded, eyes reddening.

 

"You're safe now. You'll come with us, Taris." Turning to her apprentice, "Girl, fetch him some food, then check him for injuries."

 

Later that evening in the camp, Taris sat beside Sevarra. After a few moments of silence, he spoke just barely above a whisper.

 

"What's going to happen to me? I didn't mean to cause trouble. That man scared me. I was just wanting to lay in the place with the horse-things. It's not an aravel, but it's warm at night."

 

"You're like us. You're coming with us, of course," she said.

 

He blinked at her like she'd grown a pair of extra heads. "I'm not a shemlen."

 

She summoned a small pile of snow into the palm of her hand and held it out for him to inspect. His eyes widened.

 

"You have magic. You're like us. You'll come home with us, to the tower. They'll teach you how to use your magic. There are elves there, too. My old teacher was an elf," she nodded toward Alara, who was speaking with a Templar on the other side of camp, "She's my teacher now, though."

 

"You don't have Keepers?" he asked.

 

"What's a Keeper?"

 

"They lead the clan. Teach magic to the First and Second. My Keeper already had a First and a Second..." he cast his eyes downward.

 

"What does that mean?"

 

He frowned. "That there was no room for me in the clan anymore."

 

"Just because you have magic, too?" she frowned.

 

He nodded.

 

"Well, that's... mean. Their loss, though. Magic's a gift, usually. No matter how flashy or how quiet," she puffed out her chest a little bit. The thought of being abandoned just for being a mage made the girl feel angry on the boy's behalf and had inspired a small bit of defensive pride.


	6. The Stories We Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alara and company make it back home. Things settle back to normal until they get shaken up again.

The Bannorn's plains were vast, covered by farms in some places, and untouched grasslands in others, each wearing a lush coat of green and gold. Once in a while, the grasslands were interrupted by a stream or lonely hill. The evenness of the land made for swift travel, even by foot. The party stopped by only one village on their return trip. The people of Galeford gave them warm greetings as they procured extra supplies. Taris had nothing but the clothing on his back and the Enchanter had insisted they get the lad a few essentials; new boots, quill pens, and an ink pot among them.

 

Not more than a mile outside of Galeford, the party was confronted by a gang of bandits.

 

"Oi! You lot! You's need to pay a toll for using this here road!" one of the roughly clad and foul-smelling bandits yelled as he stalked into the middle of the dirt road.

 

Five more men, each in leather gear that had most assuredly seen better days, appeared from seemingly nowhere and surrounded the group. All of them were armed in some manner. Most had daggers hanging at their hips, while a pair held bows nocked and ready to fire. One of them caught Sevarra's eye and gave her a leering grin. The apprentice felt her skin crawl. Glaring at the bandit, she put herself between Taris and the aggressors. Of course, Templars were between the bandits and her.

 

The Knight-Captain spoke, "I highly suggest you and your companions turn around and leave. I will only say this once."

 

The bandits' spokesman scoffed with a hearty laugh.

 

"D'ya hear that, lads? He thinks he's funny! Now then, pays us, oh for a group your size, 40 silvers, and we'll let you on your way, nice and peaceful like."

 

"Maker have mercy on you, for we shall not. Men! Draw your weapons!"

 

The six Templars drew their blades in unison. The two archer bandits swallowed hard and lowered their bows. Apparently, they had noticed the well cared for armor and the flaming sword sigils that adorned the shields and breastplates of their quarry.

 

"Er, boss," one of the archers peeped up. "Them's Templars. Don't think we should be messing about with them."

 

"Sod," was all the lead bandit said before giving a girlish scream and fleeing. His companions wisely followed his lead.

 

"Ser Brant, stay here with the mage and the younglings. The rest of you, AFTER THEM! We cannot have filth like that harassing the locals," the Knight-Captain barked.

 

Five of the knights dashed in pursuit of the bandits with a roaring battle cry. Over the course of half an hour, the knights and bandits trickled back, each bandit looking much worse for wear. The bandits' hands bound with sturdy rope, they were marched back to Galeford for the local mayor to pass judgment. The people of the village were relieved to have a persistent menace taken care of for good. The bandits had been tormenting trader and traveler alike on the road leading out of the village.

 

The rude interruption taken care of, the party resumed making their way toward Kinloch Hold. To the apprentice's eyes, Alara seemed pleased. Perhaps she had good reason to be. There had been no ugly or unkind episodes with any of the village folk. Maker willing, their task had planted seeds of goodwill or at least gave food for the thought that not all mages were walking weapons. In addition, a young mage was rescued from the life of a lone stray. Sevarra had to suppress a giggle at the sound of the Enchanter humming as she hiked along.

 

Taris seemed anything but comfortable around most of the group. The girl idly wondered if her being the next shortest person, and therefore probably seeming like less of a threat, was the reason why he seemed to be less uncomfortable around her. He watched with interest during her lessons at camp in the evenings. After a couple of nights, he timidly attempted to join in. Judging by the warm smile on the Enchanter's face, that delighted the elder woman. After a lesson, the apprentice slowly walked the young elf through the process of summoning a wisp. As a small green spark of light floated in the air in front of his face, the pair laughed in delight. The pat on the shoulder and the elder mage's warm smile had taken the girl by surprise.

 

Arriving at Lake Calenhad had Templar and mage alike in good spirits. Soon, they would be back home, back to their own beds, back to proper baths, and once again enjoy food that they didn't have to cook themselves. Taris had clung tightly to Sevarra's arm while they rode the ferry to the tower; he'd never seen a body of water bigger than a stream before, much less ridden a boat. His mouth was agape when he beheld the vast white tower from the dock.

 

"Here it is, home," the apprentice said simply. "Most people here are like us. Nothing to be scared of, other than extra class work or chores."

 

As the great doors yawned open, the smiling face of the First Enchanter and the persistently dour Knight-Commander greeted the returning party.

 

"And so our wanderers have returned home, hale and whole," Irving smiled. "And with a newcomer, so it seems?"

 

"Aye, First Enchanter," Alara replied. "Taris of Clan Nolall. We'd come upon him alone in Jav's Folly."

 

Irving's gaze filled with sympathy. "Know that you are welcome here and safe, Taris."

 

The Knight-Commander barked for a report from his captain. He bellowed in outrage upon hearing of the attempted waylay outside Galeford.

 

"You see? THIS is why it was not a good idea to let them out of the tower!"

 

Irving arched an eyebrow. "And yet, I see no injuries, nor any signs of distress. Each Templar and mage has come back unharmed, and with a new student in tow. It would seem your men did the job you sent them out to do quite admirably."

 

Alara eyed her apprentice. "Off with you, girl. Get some rest. I expect an essay about the trip in two days."

 

Sevarra groaned in protest.

 

"Ah-ah! No whining! Now get!" Alara glared.

 

The younger mage trudged away toward the apprentice dorms.

 

"Now then, Taris, we need to do something important before we get you settled in," Irving said.

 

\---

 

Sevarra lumbered out of the bath area, in a fresh clean robe, still patting her hair dry in a fluffy towel, when an excited hoot made her jump in surprise.

 

"You're back! It's about bloody time!" Jowan said. "Where'd you go? What was it like?"

 

"Well, there was a lot of walking. Aside from the actual healing, it was sort of... different?" she said.

 

He snorted and gave a look that pressed for more details. Anders had quietly drifted next to the excited boy. His dark eyes were alight with curiosity.

 

"Well... the land we walked on, it was all green and gold. They had a lot of --what do they call them?-- the places where they grow food?" she searched for the word.

 

"Farms. They're called farms," a quiet voice answered.

 

Jowan and Sevarra looked at Anders in surprise. Jowan broke into a massive grin.

 

"So you **can** talk!" he crowed.

 

The honey-blond boy continued, "How do you not know what a farm is? My family has one. We grow grain and raise birds. Mostly chickens and some geese. Nasty buggers, those geese."

 

Sevarra shrugged. "Because I've never been to a farm? I've only lived here and a big city before that. And what by the Fade is a goose?"

 

"A demon with feathers and a beak. They'll attack anything. Even dogs," Anders replied.

 

"Well, there were lots of farms. It was so pretty, really. Not at all like the boring little island we're stuck on. There were hills and a couple of streams, too. I saw fish! Itty bitty silver ones. Ser Brant said they were too small to bother with yet."

 

"Oh, and we found a stray elf boy," she continued. "We were in a tiny village, it didn't even have a chantry or a Revered Mother. From what I could gather, he was left behind by his clan, or something. He didn't want to talk about it much. His name's Taris, by the way. We brought him home."

 

"Clan?" Jowan asked. "That would mean he's one of those wild elves? Those... Dalish? I hear they aren't civilized."

 

"Could have fooled me. Taris seems like a regular elf to me. Just not used to being around humans," Sevarra said. "But that's not all. On our way back, bandits tried to rob us!"

 

The boys looked on in disbelief.

 

"Not that they stood a chance. The Templars thrashed them soundly and hauled them off to be judged."

 

"Now you're just pulling my leg!" Jowan said.

 

"No, I'm not! Honest!"

 

He laughed and turned away. "Sure. Sure, whatever you say. I've got to get to the library. And write about history, not tall tales."

 

Sevarra huffed irritably and plopped onto to her bunk. Her mud-caked boots were peeking out from underneath it. She wasn't a spinner of tales! She had no talent for it! She grabbed a charcoal pencil and began writing a draft of the essay her mistress had insisted she make.

 

\---

 

Within a week, the buzz over the healers' trip had died down. Things were once again back to a predictable and familiar course. Anders had come alone several days later and asked about the trip. The way his eyes looked as he took in every detail made her think he was pining for something very badly.

 

It was just after the midday meal, and that meant it was time to get back to class. She and Jowan scurried to one of the many lecture rooms. Enchanter Gustav was a stickler for promptness and was the resident instructor of history. The past few lessons had been particularly heated on his part, as they covered the Orleasian occupation. Gustav was nothing if not a proud Fereldan.

 

Something made both apprentices freeze in their tracks a couple of steps into the classroom. The air felt heavy, sick. Something made the back of their minds cry out that a twisted and wrong thing had taken place there very recently. Dark magic had been at play, their senses sang in warning.

 

They looked at each other fearfully and then scanned the room. Nothing looked out of place or otherwise disturbed. Until they came to Gustav's desk. The man was slumped over his heavily cluttered work table. He was unresponsive and had a large puddle of reddish black ooze pooled around his head. The girl screamed in horror as she sank to her knees. The boy backed out of the room and went running in search of an adult.

 

Minutes later, a Templar and one of the senior enchanters came racing into the room, trailed by Jowan and one of the other instructors. The senior enchanter and Templar examined the room while the enchanter kept the growing crowd of curious students out of the room. It took several minutes for the senior enchanter to snap Sevarra out of her stupor.

 

"Snap out of it, girl," the bearded man growled as he shook her by the shoulders. "What did you see? Tell me."

 

"Can't you feel it? The air feels... wrong," she murmured. "Sick, twisted. It hurts to feel it."

 

He glowered. "Right. The healer's apprentice. Of course, she'd say that. Damned thing will keep whining about the air until she's elsewhere. You, get her out of here and see if she snaps out of this state," he nodded to the enchanter guarding the door.

 

The Templar spoke up. "I agree with the girl. I sense something dark here. Forbidden magic was used, I'd suspect."

 

"But who would want Gustav dead? The man was harmless. Unless you count being bored to sleep an offense worthy of violence," the senior enchanter wondered aloud.

 

–

 

It took a while for her senses to coalesce. When she came back to herself, she found she was sniffling and quietly crying. The sight of Enchanter Gustav, laying there, lifeless... it was overwhelming. And the way the air had felt, how it made every hair on the back of her neck stand up, made her want to flee in terror... she'd never felt that way before.

 

Blinking a few times, the apprentice realized she wasn't in the classroom anymore. One of the other instructors, Enchanter Eileen, the one who taught letters and composition, was hovering nearby. They were in the assembly hall, a good distance from the history classroom. Odd, she didn't recall leaving the room. The portly blonde mage sighed in relief when she noticed the girl was once again in control of her faculties.

 

"About time, Miss Amell. I think everyone in the wing heard you lose your mind. But I guess it's not every day you walk into class to find... that."

 

The younger mage wrapped her arms around herself tightly. She'd seen blood before, she'd seen broken bones, but what she'd seen that day, that was utterly foreign. It felt sick, wrong. Normal blood had a metallic smell, not the scent of wine that had aged into vinegar, which she'd noted before screaming. Whatever that was had not been natural, or caused by any magic she was acquainted with.

 

"It hurts."

 

"What does?" the instructor asked.

 

She wanted to say 'everything,' but that wasn't exactly true. Her mind, the nebulous part of her that sensed magic, it ached in an exquisite manner. Almost as if it had been burned by something acidic. Her heart ached and she felt tired. She'd never seen a dead person up close before.

 

"My head."

 

The door opened and two red-robed senior enchanters made their way in. One was the bearded man from earlier, Vimar. The other turned out to be the graceful form of Wynne.

 

"Well, it appears she's no longer hysterical," he said.

 

Wynne shot him a dark look, silencing him. She claimed the other half of the bench Sevarra was occupying.

 

"We need to talk," the elder mage said softly. "We need to know what you saw back in the classroom."

 

Vimar loomed nearby, faintly scowling.

 

"Jowan and I were heading to class after eating, like always. We took a couple of steps inside when something," the girl helplessly gestured her hands. "Well, it felt wrong. It... hurt. Like I was being burned, but not really? Like it was in my head? It.. it felt like something wanted to reach out and grab me."

 

Wynne furrowed her brows while managing to look sympathetic. "Go on."

 

"We looked around. It didn't look like anything was out of place. But that feeling, it wouldn't go away. The air, it felt wrong, it smelled wrong. We went up to his desk and found him. He... was just laying in that... puddle. It didn't look like blood, and it didn't smell like blood does."

 

"And how would you know that, hm?" Vimar asked.

 

Sevarra looked him in the eye. "I've seen broken bones poking through the skin. I've seen fresh wounds. I know what blood looks like and smells like. Ask my mistress if you don't believe me. That stuff, it wasn't blood. At least, not anymore. It smelled like vinegar that used to be wine. Not very good wine, either."

 

Wynne gave Vimar a look that seemed say 'I told you so.'

 

"Did you notice anything else?" he pressed.

 

"No. The next thing I knew, I was in here," she slumped her shoulders. "I don't even remember coming in here."

 

The senior enchanters rose and took their leave. Once out of earshot, they spoke in hushed whispers.

 

"The girl gave more of a story than her little friend. Don't you find that suspicious?" Vimar said.

 

"No. Not at all," Wynne replied.

 

"Then care to enlighten me?"

 

"What she described was similar to what I felt in there. Spirit healers are not known for their love of darker magic. Surely you're not blind? That girl isn't a war-mage. She'll walk a healer's path once she's of age and ready act on her inclinations. Therefore, it should not come as any surprise that she'd not relish being in the wake of dark magic," she replied.

 

"If she survives the Harrowing," he groused. "Losing grip on her emotions like she did will only attract demons in search of prey."

 

"Ah, yes. You were never young and still learning the way of things, hm?" she smirked.

 

"Damn right," he grumped.

 

\---

 

Several Tranquil were helping with the task of cleaning the classroom after the remains of Gustav had been removed. One of the Senior Enchanters oversaw things, his face an unreadable mask. Several vials of the substance that had been on the table had been collected and carried away to one of the labs for closer inspection. He would examine them soon, but he wanted to comb over the scene one more time.

 

Casting a seeking spell with the ease that came with years of practice, a faint red glow flickered to life beneath the teacher's desk. Scowling, the senior enchanter barked for a couple of Tranquil to help him move the sturdy oak desk. It wouldn't do to leave any trace of that... gunk.. behind, not when there were several people in the tower who were sensitive to whatever magic it had given rise to it. He sighed to himself, spirit healers were entirely too sensitive for his liking.


	7. Watch Your Step!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tower's authorities begin an investigation, while life goes on for the apprentices. Something, or rather, someone, has drawn young Sevarra's attention.

The First Enchanter and Knight-Commander grimly listened as the Templar, a Ser Morris, gave his report.

 

"The lad, Jowan, came to me first. He was babbling something about a dead instructor in the history room, then he ran off and grabbed the nearest mage, Senior Enchanter Vimar. He lead us to the room. The air... it felt dark, wrong. Enchanter Gustav was at his desk, slumped in a pool of.. of.. whatever that stuff was. That pool gave off an aura of forbidden magic."

 

"Did you think to question the students, Ser Morris?" Greagoir asked.

 

"Begging your pardon, Commander, but there was no way they could have done that. The girl was too hysterical. She was screaming her head off in terror. No way she could have gotten a spell off in that state. The boy was babbling and scared, just not as... loudly. I would've picked up on any spell-casting going on."

 

The Knight-Commander huffed in irritation. Clearly, he did not agree with the Ser Morris' opinion.

 

Irving frowned as he stroked his beard. "This is most troubling. Certain magics and relics are forbidden or locked away for a very good reason. It would seem someone has chosen to flout the rules and it cost the life of one of our own. We must get to the bottom of this before someone else suffers."

 

"That being said, Greagoir, the students you are potentially accusing of murder are barely into their teenage years. They lack the knowledge and ability to carry out such a thing," he continued.

 

"Or so you would like to think. Maleficarum are nothing if not cunning," Greagoir grumbled.

 

Irving leveled a glare the Knight-Commander's way. "I strongly suspect that the party responsible for this is much older and certainly more skilled than a pair of apprentices."

 

A knock at the First Enchanter's office door broke the tension hanging in the room. Vimar and Wynne waited to be acknowledged before entering.

 

"Enough. We shall discuss this later, Greagoir. I must confer with my senior enchanters."

 

The pair politely nodded to the Knight-Commander as he stormed out. Ser Morris followed in his wake.

 

Uldred came rushing to the door wearing a look of dismay. "Irving," he clipped, "it is as I feared. That substance is the result of blood magic. We appear to have someone dabbling in something they should not."

 

The First Enchanter swore under his breath. "We need a way to find them and put a stop to it."

 

\---

 

The soil felt soothing between her fingers. She dug another small hole and waited for Taris to drop a tiny black and yellow seed into it. They were planting marigolds to lure away pests from the freshly made vegetable patch. With tensions running high in the tower, it was decided that everyone would get twice the allotted time outdoors. If nothing else, it would give the residents something different to focus on for a while.

 

Discussion about what had happened to the history instructor was heavily discouraged. There was no official word given regarding what had caused the man's demise. His funeral had been held several days ago. For a large portion of the students, it had been the first funeral they'd ever witnessed.

 

"In my clan, we buried our dead and planted a tree over them. Returned them to the earth. We didn't do that giant fire thing," Taris said quietly.

 

"I'm told we do the funeral pyre in remembrance of Andraste," she replied. "But I like the tree planting thing. Sounds pretty."

 

"Extra time outside and you're wasting it digging around in the dirt?" Jowan asked.

 

"Why not?" Taris said. "You've been running around kicking that ball all afternoon."

 

"With other people," the human boy said. "While you two have been sitting by yourselves. Digging. In dirt. Where's the fun in that?"

 

"We're planting a garden. It's digging with a purpose," she said.

 

"That sounds about as interesting as watching grass grow."

 

"But prettier," she retorted.

 

Another boy a few yards behind Jowan called to him, wanting the ball back for another game. "Well, gotta go. You should do something fun. Never know when they'll cut this short."

 

Taris said something, but she didn't pick it up. All of her attention had been captured by possibly the most stunning thing she'd ever seen. A trio of girls, two elves and a lanky human, were laughing by the lake's shore. The girl in the middle, an elf with sapphire eyes, light brown skin and brilliant gold hair, beamed. The trio wandered away toward the dock. She followed them with her eyes, but her legs refused to move.

 

"DID YOU SEE THAT?!" Taris yelled, snapping her back to reality.

 

"Uhm... see what?" She tried and failed to shake the elven girl's image from her mind. Her cheeks were burning.

 

The young elf pointed to the lake. A small group of first-year apprentices were standing at the shore, looking confused or laughing, while the Templar assigned to them paced to and fro fretting. A few yards out into the water, a boy was paddling like mad to the lake's opposite shore. Wait, that hair... it couldn't be... Anders?

 

\---

 

He held the vial aloft at eye level, scowling at it as if it would talk if he gave an intimidating enough look. It swirled of its own volition, lazily shifting from red tones to pitch black and back again. It did nothing to glass or stone but had eaten through wood and flesh. Curious.

 

The hooded figure placed it back onto a secure rack in one of the many cupboards. For a first attempt, his little project had done the job, more or less. Hardly anything went off flawlessly the first time, he reminded himself. He would lay low, he would tinker. He had time. The next batch would be better.

 

Once his creation was perfected, one less thing would stand in his way. He would change things, one way or another. He didn't have time for the slow grinding gears of fate. Sometimes, they needed a push.

 

\---

 

The senior enchanter scowled at the vial of black-red ooze sitting on the lab counter. Blood magic had made it, but whatever else was used in its creation yet eluded him. Someone had the utter cheek and gall to get up to forbidden nonsense in HIS tower. Well, technically, it was not his tower, not yet. But surely Irving wouldn't be around for too much longer. The man was crafty, but no one could escape the ravages of aging.

 

He picked up the vial and gave it a careful shake, making the fluid shift from red to black and back again. Utterly foreign and utterly dangerous to any living or previously living material it touched. He'd tested it on a variety of things, from fabrics to raw meat. Anything organic looked like it had been eaten away by acid. If he could not disassemble this substance, perhaps he could find a way to track down its maker? Yes. Yes, that could work! He just needed a way to detect blood magic, other than waiting for one of the spirit healers to act irrationally uncomfortable.

 

He smirked. _Track down the blood magic, you find the blood mages and then you find the creator of this foul substance_ , he thought. He would be a front-runner for First Enchanter after that! When the time came, of course.

 

–

 

Anders had been returned to the tower within a week of his escape, thankfully unharmed, save for his pride. His mood was foul for weeks afterward. The days passed, and while the tension from Gustav's death had decreased, it hadn't gone away entirely by the time Cloudreach ended. Bloomingtide and Justinian came and went. Solace brought with it the longer days and shorter nights and heat of summer.

 

Some young mages came to the tower knowing what day they'd been born on. Others did not. For those who did not, some took to celebrating the day they'd arrived to the Circle in place of a day of birth. Those who were happy there, at least. For Jowan and Sevarra, that day was the 12th day of Solace. Every year on that particular day, they would sneak into the kitchens and somehow always manage to find some choice pieces of honeycake sitting unguarded. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps it was a game to the cooks, but they had yet to be caught. That particular day, the pair took their stolen treats and fled to the garden to enjoy them.

 

If the records were to be believed, this was now their 14th year. Jowan had grown a head taller than Sevarra, who always seemed to lag behind her peers in physical growth. Nearly all of the human and most of the elven students her age had started becoming taller than her, a fact that mildly annoyed her. At her last checkup, Alara had lightly teased her for still being under 5 feet tall.

 

Sevarra was taking small, deliberate bites of her cake while Jowan was taking massive chomps of his as if it would sprout legs and run off if he did not devour it in a timely manner. A nearby tree was offering mid-morning shade to the garden. They were hiding from the Templars in charge of overseeing outside time. Groups of apprentices were huffing and puffing as they jogged along the shore, being herded along by one of the men in less restrictive armor, setting the pace. Since the escape attempt, outdoor time had become more structured and subject to yet more oversight.

 

A pink-faced and exhausted Anders found them in their hiding spot and plopped down in the shade.

 

"Shhh!" Jowan hissed. "Don't give us away, we're hiding!"

 

Sevarra wordlessly offered the newcomer a portion of her treat, which he gratefully gulped down in three bites. Even Anders was taller than her and he was younger, she thought with mild annoyance.

 

"How many laps?" she asked quietly.

 

"Six. Around the whole island," he panted.

 

"Ugh," the pair of fugitive apprentices said in unison.

 

\---

 

He wrinkled his nose as he read from a tome. It was dry and not especially enticing, but it had taken weeks to reach him discreetly. The tower had nothing but the briefest and vague descriptions of the subject he was studying: Blood magic. Phylacteries were one thing, one of the few legitimate uses of that school of magic. But for what he was undertaking, he needed more. What was the saying? "It takes a thief to catch a thief?"

 

Hastily scratching down notes, he smirked. Perhaps he would have something to test very soon. A prototype, of sorts. But first, he would need to find a bit of bait for the trap, and an unwitting creature to trigger it. He had a few potential candidates in mind.

 

\---

 

There she went, radiant blue eyes smiling and golden hair in a pair of braids that allowed her lovely pointed ears to be seen. She'd finally learned the girl's name: Surana. Neria Surana. It sounded like poetry in her mind. She watched as Neria and one of her friends walked down the hall and into one of the classrooms. Sevarra sighed wistfully moments before she found herself bumping face-first into the library door and then landing on on her rump on the floor.

 

Cheeks burning in embarrassment, she quickly scooped up her scattered books and made certain the door was open before trying to enter the library again. That hadn't been the first collision that week. At least she didn't end up having to clean up a broken mug and have a foot burnt by hot tea again. Once was enough for that.

 

The look she got from Jowan and Emery as she sat down to study with them confused her.

 

"Uhm, you have a little something, er.." Emery mimed at his upper lip.

 

"Your nose is bleeding. What happened?" Jowan asked.

 

She flushed red in embarrassment again once a wipe with her handkerchief revealed a dribble of blood.

 

"I lost a fight with the library door," she replied.

 

Jowan grinned wolfishly. "You saw her again, didn't you?"

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.

 

"Riiiight. And you ran into a table and dropped that hot tea on your foot two days ago because you thought it would be fun, huh?" he smirked.

 

"Shut up," she weakly protested.

 

"Saw who?" Emery asked.

 

"Ner-- OW!"

 

Jowan winced in pain before glaring at Sevarra. Perhaps one stomp on his toes would be enough, this time. With that, they dug into their books and began trying to gain some sort of understanding of the entropy school of magic. While Jowan seemed to understand it without effort, Emery struggled and Sevarra was just flat-out baffled. Magic that had greater potential to be dark always seemed to elude her.


	8. Remedial Studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teachers get into a tiff, someone is up to questionable stuff, and a pair of apprentices get better acquainted.

Sevarra was in an extremely foul mood as she slinked away from her Survey of the Schools of Magic class. To say that she had done poorly on the exam covering the school of Entropy was an understatement. In addition to the lecturing after class had been dismissed, Enchanter Durmond had saddled her with yet more assignments. Francis Candlewick's _"Hexing for Imbeciles"_ and _"Disorientation for the Dimwitted"_ were part of the assigned reading. Jowan wisely held his tongue as he caught sight of her leaving the library with the Candlewick tomes. Talent in one thing didn't always translate into ability in another.

 

She had three bells until it was time to be at the infirmary. If she had to study that... entropy drivel, she'd at least enjoy her surroundings. Sneaking out by way of the kitchens, she made her way to the garden and plopped under a nearby tree. The marigolds were a riot of orange and yellow as they stood as sentries around the vegetable patch. On the opposite side of the tree, a bed of only flowers had been planted and brought forth a splash of red and pink blooms facing the sun.

 

She was several chapters into _"Disorientation for the Dimwitted"_ when a giggle broke her concentration. Looking up, her eyes were seized by a smiling sapphire gaze.

 

"I see Durmond is at it again," Neria said. "He made me read the books of shame, too."

 

Sitting daintily on her knees, she continued. "You're that healer's pet, aren't you? The one who got to go wandering around the Bannorn with her."

 

Sevarra could only mutely nod. Her tongue had somehow gotten itself stuck to the roof of her mouth. She silently hoped to the Maker that she wasn't blushing. Andraste's arse, Neria was even prettier up close!

 

"Is it true? What they say?"

 

"Uh-uhm, what do they say?" the dark-haired girl stammered.

 

"That Alira is a cranky old bat?"

 

"Alara," she found herself correcting the elf with a touch of heat. "And no. She just... doesn't like it when people act like idiots." Perhaps not entirely the truth, but that was her Mistress being talked about!

 

The elf laughed. "I'll bet you'll think differently once you've been with her a while."

 

"I was apprenticed to her at ten," she said simply.

 

Neria blinked several times. "Most people don't get a master until 14 or 15."

 

"I guess I'm not most people," she smirked. Seconds later, one, two, then three bells rang out. "Sod! I'm late! Sorry, I have to go!" She scooped up her books and began hurrying toward the kitchen door.

 

"Wait, I didn't get your name!" she called out to the retreating form as it went through the door and out of sight.

 

Neria sighed. One way or another, she'd figure out who that silver-eyed girl was.

 

\---

 

He shivered as he felt the dagger cut across his palm. A thin red line followed in the blade's wake. He made certain that the blood dribbled into the boiling pot on his workbench. It would be a shame to let any of it go to waste. The rashvine had cost a small fortune, as none of grew locally.

 

His smile grew as the concoction slowed and eventually ceased boiling. He sprinkled in a bit of dried deathroot, causing the mixture to turn a sickly green for a few heartbeats before becoming black as the pot cooled. Soon. He would run another little test very soon.

 

He chanted the words to the spell with great care, with reverence, as if reciting a prayer. Perhaps it was a prayer, in a way. A prayer for change, a blessing upon a tool to make that change happen. A change that needed to happen, before too many more suffered. He had only endured because he was strong because he had to be strong. Many others had been lost, never having even a whisper of a chance. He would avenge them, and protect many future young lives. If this worked.

 

\---

 

Alara glared at nothing in particular. The past few days had brought a puzzling number of people to the infirmary with cuts in unexpected places, most of them apprentices. None of them had given her the truth when she asked what caused them. One fed her a line about a glass vial breaking and cutting him. Another said she'd been cut by accident when helping in the kitchen. None of the victims gave the impression of being emotionally distraught, ruling out the typical reason for self-inflicted injuries.

 

While more still naive than she'd care for, at least her apprentice seemed to have the good sense to not intentionally hurt herself. But she'd become worryingly clumsy in recent days. Bumping into things, tripping and spilling hot drink on herself, for example. Whatever was bewitching her girl was different from the more serious thing afoot. Besides, Sevarra seemed embarrassingly weak at darker magic. The healer had gotten an earful from Enchanter Durmond about that. If there were any blood mages lurking about, her student wasn't one of them.

 

A squeaked curse and a thud tore the healer from her musing. Maker's Breath, what had the girl tripped over this time, her own feet? Or perhaps a single mote of dust on the floor? She snorted to herself as she rose to inspect the damage. Something made her stop in her doorway and just observe quietly.

 

Sevarra was picking herself up from the ground, a box of dried elfroot scattered all over the floor. Another girl, a blonde elven apprentice, giggled and then set about helping her collect the wayward herbs. They chatted quietly, smiles more often present than not. One girl would stare at the other when the other wasn't looking. Was that.. blushing?

 

After taking entirely too long to bid farewell and take her leave, the elf made her exit. The raven-haired girl stood watching her walk away, a longing sigh escaping her mouth after the visitor was out of earshot. Alara covered her face with her palm and bit back a curse. _Okay, not clumsy_. It was worse, the little idiot was smitten.

 

\---

 

His hand ached as he left the small chapel. The cut was taking its time to heal. It chewed at the back of his mind, trying to keep the injury hidden from prying eyes. Sometimes, praying had brought him comfort. Other times, he felt his words were nothing more than wasted breath following along with the dottering priest. He avoided eye contact as he made his way along the halls. He was in no mood for conversation.

 

Weren't they the Maker's children, too? Wasn't magic a gift? Wasn't magic meant to serve man? How was it serving man to spend all of their lives locked up in a tower on one meager island? How as it fair to any of them? They didn't ask to be this way. Most of them were decent people. The prophetess had died over a thousand years ago, hadn't enough time passed? How long would the magic-touched suffer for the sins of their ancestors?

 

He growled, dodging a clumsy apprentice. People needed to stop being afraid. This was just slavery, just in a more comfortable setting. Locked away until needed, like a weapon. How could anyone consider children, YOUNG CHILDREN, weapons and something to fear? This was no life for young ones, bereft of family and kin. Yes, the Circle was a clan of its own, but not every child who came to it was an orphan in need of a new family. More families had been shattered than not.

 

Ducking into a forgotten room, he slid down the wall and sat in a corner. He had to calm down, he had to stop the shaking. Being angry wouldn't help. Being angry NEVER helped, not when one was among those demons sought to capture. Breathe. Breathe. In. Out. Imagine a still pond. Imagine a stone, unmovable, impervious to the whims out outside forces. His heartbeat steadied and he risked a glance around him. Good, no one saw. It wouldn't do for anyone to catch an Enchanter losing his composure. He had to be an example.

 

He would be an example until the time was right for him to be a hero, even a martyr if needed. His cause was just. He knew so. Someday, others would understand. Until then, he would plan and prepare to light the way.

 

He straightened and dusted off his robes. He focused his mind on the small silver and lyrium on his right hand. Gently, the song came to him. It lifted him, reminding him that anything worth doing wasn't easy. He made his way to his lecture hall. Only a few minutes until the students would be filing in and ready to learn.

 

–

 

He smiled as he waved the apprentice away. One down. More to go. His expression turned to one of distaste as soon as the lad had turned the corner. He found teaching a less than thrilling practice, but it served a purpose. He would endure. _Enjoy your cheese, little mice,_ he thought. _Soon you'll have to pay your dues._

 

Now, to give it a few days. Then he would test his little theory. If he was right, it would make things ever so much easier.

 

\---

 

"Tell me, Alara, have you bothered to actually teach that poor apprentice anything? Beyond potions, herbs, and _anatomy,_ " Durmond said, sneering the final word.

 

The elder enchanter arched her brow. "One must know how the body is in its normal state in order to correctly heal it. You very well know the perils of using magic when misguided. Don't you dare even hint at it being blood magic. It is merely knowledge. Anatomy is in no way spell-craft."

 

He flinched as if struck and glowered.

 

"You do her a disservice. The girl cannot hex her way out of a box with the lid missing!" he growled.

 

"Certain people are not meant for battle. Irving assigned her to me for a reason."

 

"She may not have the luxury of avoiding battles. You know as well as I how the Chantry sees our kind. What will they do if they get a weapon that is no good? How will that reflect on the rest of us? The First Enchanter gave her to you to teach magic, not just the aspects of it that relate to healing," he countered. "Whitebark's report--"

 

"Whitebark is an arse who wanted to have a scared child MADE TRANQUIL," she shot back. "I've read the reports, I know what they say. But if she is not interested in the aspects that have darker potential, I refuse to force the matter at this time."

 

Durmond glared. "You harm her by coddling her. It is my job to ensure that apprentices have at least an acquaintance with each school of magic. That INCLUDES the so-called darker schools. They are tools. Tools have no motivation of their own. Do your job, or at very least get someone to stand in for you in this."

 

Alara glared and opened her mouth to speak before she could, he interrupted.

 

"If I do not see improvement soon, I WILL get the senior enchanters involved. Either do what you're supposed to or retire. The rest of us still have duties to fulfill, ones that you are hindering."

 

\---

 

Junior Enchanter Oselle grumbled as he began the first of several piles of paperwork on behalf of his supervisor, Senior Enchanter Torrin. He would have to read every single scrap of paper in those piles.

His eyes were the ones that sifted the useful or important notices and proposals from the frivolous ones. He was several pages into a proposal for a rod of freezing to "study the effects of ice on beverages" when the door nearest his desk flew open and slammed against the wall.

 

Looking up from the proposal, the Junior Enchanter dryly asked, "May I help you?"

 

"I need to speak to Senior Enchanter Torrin," the irritated visitor said.

 

"Do you have an appointment? Or a proposal written up to submit?"

 

"I.. er.. not as such, no," the man in gold and emerald robes said. "BUT! It is a matter of importance!"

 

Oselle clicked his tongue. "I'm sorry, Enchanter Durmond. You know the rules. No appointment or proposal: no meeting. The senior enchanter is a busy man."

 

"But a student's education is being impacted. This is important. I need to see him n--"

 

"Let me be clear. Unless you have a proposal for me to read: leave. I have work to do. We have procedures for a reason." the junior enchanter stated.

 

Durmond grumbled and stormed out. Once the enchanter was out of earshot, Oselle tossed the proposal he was reading into the hearth. At least the paper would be useful as kindling. Grumbling, he grabbed the next paper from the pile needing his attention.

 

Making his way to the opposite end of the floor, Durmond sighed and schooled his face into the most pleasant demeanor he could manage. He opened the door gently and beamed a smile at the elven woman seated at the desk inside.

 

"Junior Enchanter Leorah, lovely to see you," the man said.

 

She looked up from her paperwork. "Greetings, enchanter. What business brings you here?"

 

"Is the Senior Enchanter in?" he asked innocently.

 

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "Senior Enchanter Uldred said he was not to be disturbed unless something was, and I quote, 'Dead, dying, or on fire.' You are welcome to leave a note for him if you wish."

 

"Perhaps another time," he said.

 

A trip Wynne's office netted him nothing. Wynne was currently traveling and her Junior Enchanter had been keen to return to knitting the scarf he'd begun working on. Seeking Vimar's assistant out had revealed that the man had left with Wynne and wouldn't be back for weeks. The enchanter groaned. That left one person to ask: Sweeney. Durmond still had memories of the Freezy Chair from his time as an apprentice. Granted, Irving had the chair removed and disposed of ages ago, much to the senior enchanter's displeasure.

 

Steeling his nerves, he knocked on the door, only to find it open. Feet up on his desk, Junior Enchanter Darris snored loudly. Creeping by as quietly as he could manage, the enchanter knocked on the inner door leading to Sweeney's office.

 

"Oh! Is it time for another appointment already, Darris? Send them in!" the senior enchanter said.

 

Grinning at his good fortune for a moment, Durmond took a deep breath and adopted a solemn spirit before entering the office.

 

\---

 

She huffed and puffed, trying with all her might to keep up with the group. The Templar in charge of that day's run, Ser Arris, wasn't feeling particularly lenient and pushed the herd of students to keep up the pace. With her short legs, that required her to work harder than nearly everyone else. The only bright side was that Neria had slowed her pace so that the pair were next to each other.

 

"Oh, look at that!" the young elf panted and pointed.

 

She looked where her companion pointed. A small group of men, a mix of mages and Templars, were laying out a wooden framework a few yards away from the garden patches. Some had hand tools out and were measuring, cutting or hammering wooden planks.

 

"I wonder what that'll be," the smaller girl said. "I hope they don't wreck the garden. Taris and I worked hard on that."

 

"Surana! Amell! Stop lollygagging and pick up the pace!" Ser Arris barked.

 

With a groan, the girls sped up to rejoin the rest of the group. Four more laps to go.

 

\---

 

He waited patiently. Granted, it was getting hot under the increasing weight of potato peelings and other kitchen waste. No matter. A little while until nightfall and then he could make a run for it. The honey blond boy gave himself an imaginary pat on the back for his little plan. He'd even remembered to pack a few things and hide them under his robe before hiding in the kitchen during the chaos that was breakfast clean up.

 

Get across the lake, head south for about three days, taking care to stay clear of the most traveled roads this time, and then... home. He ached to see his mother. She'd screamed and wept as the Templars had taken him away, had begged them to stop hurting him. He'd learned a few things while in the tower. Surely he could stay home now that he wasn't a danger anymore. He was in control of his powers. He missed his little brothers and dog. He even missed the stupid chickens.

 

Anders squinted and peered out the lone peephole in his hiding spot. The horizon was beginning to turn orange and pink. Once it got dark, he'd make a beeline for the lake. At least the swim would wash the worst of the muck off him.

 

\---

 

Senior Enchanter Sweeney shivered and pulled his woolen shawl closer around him. The hearth to his left was roaring. The older he got, the more the cold seemed to bother him. Darris, his junior enchanter, was a nice young elf and had brought him a large mug of hot tea after stoking the fire. Darris sported a full beard and had been his junior for years, but what the senior considered young was relative.

 

He squinted down at the paperwork on his side table once more. Enchanter Durmond had come to him with what he'd called a grave concern. He'd accused a fellow enchanter of not doing her duty when it came to properly educating an apprentice. Not a charge a mage would level at another lightly, at least not in Kinloch. He'd heard rumors that such accusations were much more common in the Orlais Circles.

 

Grumbling and fishing out his hidden magnifying glass, something one of the Tranquil had crafted for him, he read on. Ah, that Amell girl. Poor thing had been a nervous wreck her first few years in the tower. Something about human female authority figures had made the anxiety even worse. Whitebark had been keen for another apprentice until her pyrophobia had been discovered the hard way. Wynne already had her hands full with an apprentice at the time, so the girl had been given to Alara, in spite of the youngster's issues.

 

The elder grumbled. What was the issue? The girl was reportedly much calmer and not destroying any lab equipment. He flipped through several pages. Ahhh. That would explain it. The girl was well versed in Creation, decent at Arcane and showed promise at any non-flame based Primal spell. But she seemed embarrassingly weak at Entropy and showed great reluctance for Spirit spells that weren't protective. Alara showed no desire to rectify the situation when confronted. That was an issue. The Circle was not keen on letting any weak students stand for the Harrowing, not if they could help it. The Harrowing was an affair for adult students, but Amell could potentially face it sooner than most, given her talents.

 

He sighed. This would not be a happy meeting but needed. He refused to let an instructor's disinclination potentially lead to a student's death. Alara damn well knew that the girl's placement wasn't out of pity. The First Enchanter was much too driven a leader to let pity color his decisions. A knock at his office door pulled him from his increasingly sour thoughts.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Enchanter Alara is here, as requested," Darris said.

 

"Send her in. Immediately," he glared.

 

The enchanter in question drifted into the inner office, steel grey hair in a braid that hung to her waist and green eyes aflame with defiance.

 

"You sent for me, Senior Enchanter?" she said curtly after giving the very briefest of bows.

 

Sweeney waved Darris away, who shut the door as he left. "Have a seat. We need to have a serious conversation, you and I."

 

Alara sat in a wooden chair, her back rod-straight and eyes still defiant.

 

"I will be plain. Do you want to kill that girl?"

 

She scowled. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"If you keep to the course you're on, her blood will on your hands when her time for the Harrowing comes."

 

"Senior Enchanter, she's only fourteen. The Harrowing is for adult students--"

 

He cut her off. "While the First Enchanter and Knight-Commander make the final call for when an apprentice stands for his or her Harrowing, we Senior mages are the ones who suggest the candidates. Her name has been floated a time or two. Her age has been the only thing to ensure that the vote does not pass. Sooner, rather than later, that will not be the case."

 

Alara's mouth pressed itself into a thin line.

 

"I may be old, but I am not an idiot. She was ten when assigned to you. The girl is not a dullard. She should be more... well-rounded... in the schools of magic. You need to fix this. The sooner, the better, for her sake. Mark my words, unless Andraste herself intervenes, her Harrowing will be an early one. Such is the way with prodigies."

 

"If that is all?" the enchanter asked, rising from her seat. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides, knuckles turning white.

 

"For now. I will eagerly await news of progress. And Alara? I'm only one vote, but I'll do what I can for more time."


	9. It's Not The Size Of The Dog In The Fight...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An escape, shenanigans in the practice room, and what happens when young mages get into a schoolyard fight.

Levys beamed with pride. His apprentice was moving from stance to stance with ease. One set of enchanted dummies were paralyzed in one corner, while one that had broken free stood trembling several yards away from the group. Soon, the boy would be ready to learn the Draining spells.

 

"Well done, Jowan. Now, what do you do when one breaks free?"

 

One of the enchanted dummies shook itself free of the paralysis and began lumbering toward the apprentice. Jowan danced backward a few steps and quietly chanted the words to a spell. Weaving both hands together into a crushing motion, a brief cloud of darkness covered the lumbering dummy. Snapping and crunching could be heard as the cloud dissipated and left only the crushed wooden remains of the practice dummy.

 

"Ahh. Crushing Prison. Good choice, lad. But why not a Vulnerability Hex and a fire spell?"

 

"Because we're in an enclosed space and there'd be smoke," the apprentice answered.

 

The enchanter hid his proud smile behind the clipboard he was making notes on. "I suppose that's enough for one afternoon. Clean this up, then go rest until supper. You'll have a busy day tomorrow."

 

Jowan sighed and went to fetch the broom and dustpan. It wasn't the first time he'd demolished a practice dummy during a lesson. The larger pieces were to be put near the door for one of the Tranquil to cart off to either scavenge the wood for another use or taken to the kitchens to fuel the cooking fires. There'd been complaints about he and other students being too rough on the equipment, but Levys had just winked and said to not worry over it, that it gave the Tranquil something to do that wasn't a menial chore.

 

After cleaning the practice room and having a bath, he crawled to his bunk to rest his eyes for a few minutes. He wasn't rightly sure which wore him out more, the practice or the clean up afterward. Those dummies were heavy. He must have fallen asleep, as the next thing he knew, he was being shaken while Sevarra was talking at him in a rapid-fire worried tone.

 

"Wake up! I can't find him! I looked everywhere! Wake up!"

 

He groaned, his mind still shaking itself from slumber. He'd been having such a nice dream, too. "Ugh. What's got your pants on fire? Find who?"

 

"Anders. I looked everywhere! The library, the garden, the kitchens, even the storerooms. I didn't see him at lunch. I wanted to make sure he ate today. It's time for supper," she answered.

 

He had to stop his impulse to giggle at yet another instance of her acting like a mother hen. She'd slug him in the shoulder if he did. The longer she was with her mistress, the more it came out. At this rate, she'd sprout feathers soon after her Harrowing, he thought. If it wasn't him, she'd fuss over Anders or Taris. Taris didn't seem to mind it much, being younger and still stinging from the loss of his clan.

 

Sighing, he crawled out of bed and slid his feet back into his shoes. He was terribly hungry, now that he thought about it. Sleeping through supper only ensured one would spend the night with an empty belly.

 

"I'm sure he's okay. He's not as fragile as you think," he said.

 

She merely huffed and followed him to the dining hall. She brightened considerably once Neria took a seat beside her. He only listened to the meal-time conversation with half an ear while he munched his dinner, he was mostly lost in thought about what his master had meant by "a busy day."

 

\---

 

It had been two days since Anders had last been seen. Sevarra was beside herself with worry. While she didn't understand why she was so worked up over the boy, Neria didn't like seeing her so upset. It was a rare free afternoon, so she'd dragged the dark-haired girl out to the garden when none of the Templars were paying attention.

 

"Look at that," she pointed to a corner of the garden. "Remember when they'd been putting that together? Looks like they're finished with it," the elf smiled.

 

They took in the sight of the wooden structure. It was painted bright blue, deeper than the sky above, but not quite as deep as the color of the waters of Lake Calenhad. It was octagon shaped and its roof came to a pointed top, bedecked with a copper weather vane in the shape of a drake. It was open to the air on all sides, but four of them were covered by wooden lattice 'walls.' Benches painted in a bright yellow hue stood by each lattice wall.

 

"I've never seen one of these before. Not here, or back in the alienage. I wonder what it's called?" Neria mused.

 

"I-I'm not sure. A pergola? A gazebo?" the smaller apprentice tentatively walked into the structure and looked around. She took a seat on one of the benches.

 

Neria smiled and settled next to her, resting her hand atop Sevarra's. "It's very pretty. You can get a good look at the flowers from here."

 

They sat admiring the view in silence for several minutes. Mustering up her courage, the blonde girl planted a quick kiss on the other's cheek.

 

–--

 

"No, no. You do it like so," Neria said, once again demonstrating the spell. She wove her hands in the pattern much more slowly that time, hissing the words. She pointed to a practice target as she finished the hex, wrapping it in a faint grey mist.

 

"That makes it weak to most magic. Try it again," she smiled.

 

Sevarra frowned doubtfully but resolutely made another attempt. Ever so carefully mimicking the gestures, intent on copying them just right, she began to whisper the words to the hex spell. She stumbled over her tongue on the final word as she pointed at the practice target next to Neria's "victim." Instead of the intended hex, the straw practice target began hissing. Several seconds later, it violently burst, covering the room in dried yellow grass.

 

"Well, that didn't go as planned," Neria said as she blinked in surprise. "Nice Walking Bomb, though."

 

Sevarra sighed heavily, making a point to not look in the direction of the other pair of apprentices in the practice room who were laughing themselves to tears. Her attempts the previous day had made one straw target float to the ceiling for several hours and another spin rapidly in place until all the straw that it had been composed of had flown free, leaving nothing but twine and scattered grass on the floor. At least she'd managed to channel a harmful spell today, even if it was the wrong school of magic.

 

Weaving and chanting once more, the raven-haired apprentice pointed to the target nearest the hecklers. A grey mist enveloped it. After waiting several moments and not hearing any hissing, she whooped in delight.

 

One of the hecklers, an elven lad called Siris, jeered. "Nice work, Amell. Bet your target will die of old age before you pull that off again."

 

Neria scowled at him and whispered in her companion's ear. "Ignore him, he's just a prat."

 

The human girl grimaced. She'd do one better than ignore him. Acting as if she was casting the same hex as before, she went through the motions, hissing the final out of place word from the attempt before last. Her straw target began to hiss. Siris stopped snickering as soon as the sound reached his ears, but it was too late. The target burst in a torrent of dead grass and knocked him and his companion on to their behinds.

 

"Oops. Terribly clumsy of me, sorry," Sevarra smirked at the lads.

 

The elven lad's companion, a stocky towheaded human by the name of Dmitri, glared at the girls. He rose up and dusted the grass from his robes. "Clumsy my arse," he rumbled, stalking over to the pair.

 

"Perhaps someone should learn how to be more careful, hm?" Siris added, standing behind his friend.

 

Neria bit her lip. Both of the boys were heavier and taller than she and her companion were. A physical fight with them would only end poorly. Sevarra was busy glaring in such a way that if it were a spell, Dmitri would've fallen over dead several times over. Normally, her friend seemed content to live and let live, preferring to focus on her work.

 

"Perhaps someone else should learn some manners," Sevarra growled back.

 

Sod. Apparently, today was not a day for the following of routine.

 

"You want to make something of it, dwarf?" Dmitri spat back.

 

"And if I did?" the girl glared back.

 

Neria felt her gut clench in fear. She scanned the area, looking for anyone, one of the instructors, or even a Templar, who might possibly diffuse the situation before it got even more ugly.

 

The smaller girl had been weaving her fingers in the motions of a spell and barked the final word of the incantation as she pointed at Siris. Before the elf could react, he found himself frozen in place, surrounded by a globe of shimmering colors. With a yell, she launched herself at Dmitri, headbutting him in the gut. It did not accomplish much, other than to scoot him back a couple of inches and increase his ire.

 

Neria ran for the hall, in search of help. Looking up and down the hall found it to be empty of any adults. Jowan was walking by, arms full of books, likely making his way from the library.

 

"Jowan! Sevvy went nuts! She's trying to take on Dmitri!"

 

He stopped in his tracks and arched a brow. "What? You can't be serious."

 

"I just saw her headbutt him!"

 

Cursing and yelling could be heard from the practice room. Jowan looked at Neria wide-eyed and pushed past her into the room. He saw Siris trapped in a force field, forced to be an unwilling observer to the ongoing battle. Sevarra was perched on Dmitri's shoulders, tearing at his hair, making the boy howl and spout profanity in pain. He managed to slam into the wall a few times, forcing the crazed apprentice to topple from her roost. She only managed to get back up on to her feet when she was trapped in place by a Glyph of Paralysis that had glimmered into being beneath her feet.

 

"Now you're going to get it, you stupid shem!" Siris said, shaking off the last bit of the force field's effects.

 

Jowan glared and dropped his armload of books to the floor. With a wave of an arm, he sent a stone fist flying Dmitri's way, making the larger boy go flying across the room, well away from his paralyzed target.

 

"How about you pick on someone your own size?" Jowan sneered at the elf.

 

"Like you?" Siris replied.

 

An arcane bolt flew Jowan's way in a streak of purple sparks. He barely had time to dive out of the way, the missile demolished a practice target behind him. Growling, he bounced to his feet and hurled a hex Siris' way. It dissolved against the light blue barrier enveloping the elf.

 

Shaking the stars from his vision Dmitri stormed behind Jowan, grabbing both of the apprentice's hands and holding them behind his back, twisting them uncomfortably. Right at that moment, Sevarra shrieked as she broke free of the glyph and flew at Siris, knocking him to the floor. She straddled the elf and began socking him in the face repeatedly.

 

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" an elder female voice boomed as a wave of force stunned all four of the combatants.

 

Enchanter Eileen glared as the students wobbled to their feet, clutching their heads. She was closely followed by Neria and a Templar.

 

"I am deeply disappointed in all of you," Eileen said. "You know how to act better than this."

 

"She started it!" Siris whined, covering a blackened eye and pointing at Sevarra.

 

"I do not care who started this! It ends now!" the enchanter bellowed. She grabbed Sevarra and Jowan by the ears. She nodded at the Templar, who got Dmitri and Siris by the collars. "We are all going to the First Enchanter's office for a little chat."

 

Neria frowned and debated the wisdom of running and hiding for a little while. Surely they'd forgotten about her in the scuffle.

 

"Miss Surana, come along please," the Templar said as he dragged his charges away.

 

Apparently not. She whimpered and fell into step behind the knight.

 

The worst part about the fight wasn't the bruises or extra assignments and chores given as punishment. No, not by far. The worst part of the whole affair was having to endure the First Enchanter's "I'm so disappointed in you" speech. All four of the students felt about two feet tall by the time he was done speaking. In addition, Sevarra had to hear her Mistress' version of the speech later that evening, given at a much louder volume and heated tone. Any satisfaction she'd felt over giving Siris a black eye was replaced by the ringing in her ears from Alara's displeasure.

 

If she was going to pass the exam for Enchanter Durmond's class, there would have to be more practice, and no doubt more blunders as she learned the darker magical schools, which would bring more mockery. Snarling as she scrubbed away a bit of stubborn gunk from a pot, she vowed that the next time a heckler bothered her, she'd make certain to not get caught in addition to teaching them a lesson. Just as she finished scrubbing one pile of pots and pans, a Tranquil carefully set another large tray of dishes to clean next to her. Heaving a resigned sigh, the apprentice set to work while daydreaming of underhanded ways of getting revenge.

 

The week passed in a blur of lessons, punishment chores, practice, writing the papers assigned as punishment and sleep. She didn't have any free time to consider fighting or to even really think beyond work. Perhaps that was what the First Enchanter had intended for the scrappers. The only time she had to be with friends was during meal times, and even then, it was mostly just Jowan and Taris. Neria had seemed to make herself scarce. Sevarra ached at the thought of being avoided but knew there was nothing to be done.

 

\---

 

It had been a long, cold four-day trek from Lake Calenhad, but he'd finally made it. He trotted down the road. The farms were looking very familiar. After about a mile, he heard the clucking of chickens and the barking of a dog. Ducking down beside the fence he'd been following, he peered around the corner. Two honey blond boys were taking turns tossing a stick for the black dog. He smiled. Home, he'd found his way home.

 

Biting his lip, he made up his mind and got up, moving into view. He called the black dog by name, hoping that perhaps he remembered him. Beau came running to him, barking happily and jumping up to cover his face in slobbery dog kisses. The two boys stood where they were, stunned. The smaller one, around five years of age, had a smile that traveled to his sea-green eyes.

 

"Petrie! Petrie!" the smaller boy cried as he ran up to his brother, wrapping his arms around a leg once he reached him.

 

"Donovan, who are you talking to-- Dear Maker!" a middle-aged woman said as she came from the farmhouse. She ran, closing the distance between the new arrival and herself, wrapping him in her arms.

 

Sobbing, she continued. "I thought they killed you. I never thought I'd see you again." She stopped and leaned back, inspecting him. "You've grown like a weed, and you've gotten so dirty. Get in the house and wash up. I just finished baking some bread, and we got fresh butter this morning."

 

Wiping his teary eyes on a sleeve, he didn't hesitate to do what his mother asked. His other brother, ten-year-old Logan, watched him with a hard obsidian gaze inherited from their father. The middle brother kept his distance and said nothing.

 

Two days passed. His father had traveled away to Highever on business days before Petrie arrived home. Donovan and their mother were beaming happily and glad to have him around, while Logan was cold and standoff-ish. Logan spent as much time as possible out of the house and away from the farm. What he got up to, the rest of the family could not say. On the third day, his father returned, in the company of a Templar.

 

"I heard that... thing had come back here," the boys' father scowled. "I came prepared."

 

\---

 

"Hey."

 

"Hey yourself," he replied.

 

"Look... I'm really sorry you got sucked into that... situation with Siris a few days ago. I wasn't thinking. Well, no, I was, but I was thinking about how much I wanted to bash his face in. I didn't mean for anyone else to get in trouble," she sighed and slumped her shoulders.

 

Jowan grunted and reached for a pan to scrub. They'd been banished to the kitchens while other students got to enjoy time outdoors. The pair thought that particularly cruel, as sneaking out to the garden was a favorite way to relax. Sadly, there would be no sneaking, as they were watched over by a Templar for the duration of their punishment. Jowan idly wondered if Ser Rufus, their temporary keeper, was as bored as he was.

 

"No one forced me to jump in, you know," he said. "Could you really walk away from two guys picking on one smaller person?"

 

Her cheeks went red. "I'm not sma-- Well, they were playing dirty, two of them against one of me, I guess."

 

They scrubbed in silence until the last of the mid-day meal's dishes had been cleaned. She plodded away to the infirmary while he made his way to his master's study. Enchanter Levys at least hadn't bothered to lecture him after hearing the apprentice's side of the story. In fact, the man had clapped him on the shoulder and had said that it took bravery to stand up to an unfair situation in the heat of the moment, rather than think about what to do about it in the aftermath of it. That being said, he hadn't escaped extra chores given by his master. He grabbed a feather duster and set to work about clearing the overflowing bookshelves of dust bunnies that had taken up residence in them.

 

One floor down and at the opposite end of the tower, Sevarra quietly scuttled into the infirmary, hoping to not be noticed. Alara's mood had been foul ever since news of her starting a fight-- a fight using spells, no less-- had reached her. Fortunately, only the Tranquil, Lonna, was present.

 

"Enchanter Alara left word for you to restock the bandages, antivenoms, poultices and to clean the exam rooms," Lonna said in her soft monotone. "And to avoid getting into any fights while doing so."

 

The apprentice slouched and fetched what she needed from the cleaning supply closet. Mindless toil was not as headache-inducing as being shouted at and lectured, at very least. The afternoon dragged on, and she finished her tasks, despite being in no great hurry. When the bell announced that it was time for supper, she gladly made her way out, making it the second day in a row she hadn't seen her mistress in person.

 

After the dinner dishes had all been cleaned, instead of crawling to her bunk like her tired body begged her to do, she crept into the practice room and began practicing forms. Perhaps if she was quiet, no one would know she was there.


	10. The Road to Hell and What It's Paved With...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone wound up dead. Chaos ensues.

Enchanter Whitebark glared disdainfully at the sample in one of his vials. He was still no closer to finding out what it was, what it was composed of, or where it had come from. He let loose a frustrated sigh and sauntered out of his lab. As he was making his way toward the stairwell that would lead the floor where his personal quarters were located, he passed one of the practice rooms. He paused, in spite of his advanced age, his hearing was quite sharp and picked up on whispered chanting. Creeping as softly as he could, he peered in from around the doorway.

 

He had to bite his lip from chuckling, lest he give himself away. There was the Amell girl, alone, and whispering attempts at hex spells and meeting with... questionable success. He'd heard of the brawl that had happened several days ago. The infrequent occurrence of fisticuffs was a fact of life around so many children and adolescents, but one where magic had been freely flung about was even less common. _It would seem the little cat remembered she has claws,_ he thought to himself with a smirk.

 

To say that Whitebark and Alara did not see eye to eye on the magics healers and battle-mages "should" know was an understatement. The ancient elf was in favor of a mage knowing as much offensive magic as one could stomach, to be used like a porcupine used his quills. The elderly healer felt it best to be as non-threatening as possible, to remind the mundane folk that not all magic was destructive. He frowned. What good was a healer if he or she had no way to defend themselves and wound up dead?

 

He tilted his head to the side as one of the straw practice targets floated toward the ceiling. That certainly wasn't a hex. And if he'd heard the girl's chanting correctly, she'd meant to hex, not to levitate. A sigh, a stomp of a foot and loudly pronounced curse broke the aura of silence in the room. Dare he interrupt? Did she even remember his... unfortunate outburst from years ago? Would he want to deal with him were he in her shoes?

 

He wouldn't get the chance to find out.

 

The sound of shattering glass pulled him from this thoughts, followed quickly by a burning pain unlike any he'd felt before. He crumbled to the floor after crying out. Soft footsteps padded away in the direction he'd come.

 

A cry of pain alerted Sevarra that she wasn't alone. Rising from her straw target seat in a panic, she made for the door, where she saw the supine form of Enchanter Whitebark. A healing spell was on her lips as she knelt down beside him, but it was for naught. He expired as she finished casting. _No. No. Not again!_

 

She screamed in terror, seeing the red not-blood fluid had eaten away the old elf's left arm, leaving nothing but bone and stench behind. The screams didn't stop as a Templar came running to see what the fuss was about. She didn't really pay attention to the growing cluster of mages and Templars forming around her, nor did she offer any resistance when Wynne pulled her up and guided her away from the scene.

 

–--

 

His heart was pounding in his ears. _Keep walking, keep calm, keep moving, don’t let anyone see you._ He paused for one backward glance at the chaos behind him before climbing up the stairway. A pity about the girl, he hadn’t known she was around, else he would’ve picked another time to test his latest batch. Templars and a senior enchanter were investigating the body, while the girl had been hauled away, apparently. Opening and closing the door as quietly as he could, he melted away into the shadows of the stairwell and stole away. 

 

While the body was being carried away, in another room, Wynne stood watching over the apprentice as the girl stared blankly into space. The elder almost would have preferred the tears from several minutes ago, to this… emptiness was disturbing. The stench of dark magic also irritated the senior mage’s magic-sensing, making it feel as if it’d accidentally brushed against a hot cooking pot and recoiled in pain. She suspected that the girl was equally uncomfortable, along with a hefty dose of fear due to a youthful lack of exposure to such things.

 

The senior mage almost didn’t hear the soft, ragged whisper as it crept from the girl’s throat.

 

“...his entire arm. Gone. Just… just bones. What… what could do… do that? Why?”

 

Wynne stood still, listening.

 

“… why couldn’t I help him? What did I do wrong? Was it my fault? I should’ve been able to help...”

 

The younger mage sat on the stone floor and pulled her knees tightly under her chin, wrapping her arms about the shins. Her gaze remained fixed on blank space. She did not budge or otherwise acknowledge the presence of others as the door creaked open. Senior Enchanter Vimar carefully stepped in, gaze traveling from the apprentice to his fellow senior mage questioningly.

 

“Anything useful from the girl?”

 

Wynne shook her head. “No. She seems overwhelmed and checked-out right now.”

 

Vimar knelt and waved his hand in front of Sevarra’s face. The lack of reaction, not even a blink, made him grunt grimly.

 

“Sod it. We need answers. What was she doing in that room? She shouldn’t have been there, it was past lights-out for the students,” he said. “She needs to start talking.”

 

“You won’t get any sense out of her, yet. Give her time. She’s reeling and probably in pain.”

 

“And one of our eldest enchanters is now dead. We need answers, now,” he growled.

 

He grabbed the girl by the shoulders and began shouting. He got no answers, he only made her shriek in fear and try to wriggle free of his grasp. Ice began creeping up his boots. The door slammed open followed by an angry roar and then Vimar found himself the owner of several stomped-on toes.

 

“UNHAND MY APPRENTICE,” Alara snarled, the air ominously heavy with gathered magical energy.

 

He found himself unable to step back, boots still frozen to the floor. Alara glared and pushed past him, kneeling beside her apprentice, who was now cowering in a corner, eyes wide like saucers.

 

“You deserved that, you idiot. You made her panic,” the irate healer said, casting her eyes over the ice surrounding his feet. She turned her attention back to her student.

 

Wynne pressed her lips into a thin line, debating if she should help her foolish fellow senior mage out of his predicament or not. With a sigh, she dispelled the magically created ice before frostbite could begin. Maker knew Alara would not be kind to the man if he found himself in need of her skills any time soon.

 

“Whitebark is dead,” Wynne said plainly. “She was kneeling next to his body, screaming her head off.”

 

“And that makes you think she had something to do with his passing?” Alara said, eyes boring imaginary holes into Vimar’s face.

 

“She was not in the apprentice dormitories at lights-out, so it is suspicious, yes,” Vimar said.

 

"And so your first impulse was to shake her and scream at her? Rather than, say, wait for her wits to return and, oh I don’t know, talk to her? I thought you senior mages had sense in your heads. Apparently, I was mistaken,” the healer spat. 

 

Perhaps it was not wise to snap at her superiors, but Maker’s tits, Alara wanted to shake them and scream at them and see how they liked it. Sevarra might have been stubborn and a handful when the notion took her, but malicious she was not. The mere suggestion that her student had killed a fellow mage made her ire burn hotter than it had in ages. Sometimes, she thought, the higher-ups were no better than Templars in their willingness to think poorly of others gifted with magic.

 

“Girl,” the healer said softly, “look at me. Look at me.” She lifted her apprentice’s chin with a gentle hand. 

 

Silver eyes blinked slowly as if being pulled back to reality from a daydream or vision. “M-mistress? Wha-- where… where are we?”

 

Alara turned and favored Vimar with a glare. Turning back, she sighed. “Near the practice rooms. Do you remember what happened? Why were you there?”

 

“I was practicing. I… I wanted to get better, so I wouldn’t fail the next exam in Enchanter Durmond’s class,” she stammered. 

 

“At this hour? You should’ve been in the dormitory resting.” 

 

The girl curled her hands into fists. “I need to practice. It was the only time I could find. I was being quiet!”

 

Wynne spoke up. “Do you recall seeing Enchanter Whitebark?”

 

“No! I’d been-- Oh, Maker…” 

 

The memory surfaced, savagely replaying the scene in detail. Tears welled up and slid down her face, turning to ice before they could reach her chin as she trembled.

 

“I’d heard a noise. Someone yelling in pain. I got up to see what it was. I found him there, laying on the floor in a pool of… of… whatever it was. His arm… it… dissolved. There was only… only bone left.” 

 

She hugged herself tightly. “I tried to help him! Honest! He… he was dead before I could finish my healing spell. I didn’t know who it was until I got to the door. You have to believe me! I didn’t cast any offensive spells on him! I was using the practice targets! I don’t know any hexes that can do… do… what was done to him.”

 

“That’s what a blood mage would want us to believe,” a flat voice said. 

 

The owner of the voice, Senior Enchanter Uldred, stalked into the room, scowling. Alara rose and placed herself in front of her apprentice, who resumed cowering in her corner. The healer defiantly held Uldred’s gaze.

 

\--- 

 

Spirit healers were rare. Before now, he’d been certain that there were only two in the whole of the tower: Wynne and Alara. Curse his luck that the girl was rapidly showing signs that she would be the third. Spirit healers were too sensitive to dark magic, too sensitive by far. No matter that the magic was being used for a good cause. They’d make their discomfort known, they couldn’t help it. Didn’t people pull back from hot objects by pure instinct?

 

He sighed raggedly after locking himself in his hidden laboratory. Too close, that had been entirely too close. Foolish, stupid, careless! He should have scoped out the area before striking. He bore no ill will toward the younglings. He was doing all of this to  _save_ the young! Just his luck that one had the determination to be out practicing past lights-out time. While Whitebark had had it coming for many years, that girl had done nothing to deserve what she’d seen. 

 

He sank into a chair and held his head in his hands. This was messy, messier than he anticipated. The youngling kept stumbling into where he’d tested out his concoction. Sooner or later, she, or one of the other two, would cotton on. One line of thought said that getting rid of the three of them would make things much easier for him and his experiments. But he wasn’t a monster, he had morals. Wynne and Alara had never done any harm to anyone, that he could remember. And the girl just had abysmal bad luck. Killing them would be wrong. And yet, the darker part of his mind asked  _what were three lives when so many more could be saved?_

 

“No! No, I won’t do that! I’m not a monster!” he said to the empty air. 

 

_Are you so certain of that?_ A voice in his mind asked him. 

 

The air around him became heavy with static, making his hair stand on end. He curled in on himself and focused on his breathing.  _Calm down, focus. You can’t bloody stay hidden if you give the Templars something to sniff out._

 

\---

 

Irving drained the contents of the teacup. He silently cursed and wished it would work faster. Just his luck that something untoward would happen shortly after he’d finally gotten to sleep. He scowled as the door opened, announcing the arrival of several senior enchanters and templars to his office.

 

Vimar, Wynne, Uldred and a pair of templars stood before his desk. Wynne looked troubled, while Vimar and Uldred looked smug as if they were certain beyond doubt. Knight-Captain Davell and one of his men had escorted them. The Knight-Commander was busy either speaking with the other party to the scuffle or helping to investigate the scene of the death.

 

“It is not often that I am disappointed in my senior mages,” the First Enchanter said slowly. If they were going to act like misbehaving apprentices, they would be treated as such. 

 

He rose from his chair, hands clasped behind his back. “Bad enough that one of our longest serving colleagues has been discovered dead from unnatural causes. But to hear that a senior mage tried to attack an apprentice unprovoked… that is  _very disturbing._ ” 

 

He leveled a glare at Vimar and Uldred. “I cannot blame Enchanter Alara for her actions. I would have done the same in her situation. I suspect you made her genuinely afraid for the safety of her charge.”

 

Both Vimar and Uldred’s robes were smoking and ripped in several places. Vimar also sported the beginnings of a black eye. It was not often Harrowed mages got into scuffles in the Circle’s home. No doubt stories would spread far and wide both in and outside of the tower before the end of the week. Mages and templars were nothing if not avid gossips behind closed doors.

 

“But the girl used ice magic on me!” Vimar bleated. 

 

“After you shook the poor thing while screaming in her face, idiot. She’d just witnessed a man dying in front of her. I told you to wait, to let her recover her wits, but you refused.” Wynne glared. 

 

Irving took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Yelling at someone while shaking them held a small bit of appeal at that moment.

 

“Alara is too close to the situation. She sees only her apprentice. Nevermind that Miss Amell has been present at the scene of both deaths. I do not believe in coincidences, First Enchanter,” Uldred said. 

 

“An apprentice who has shown to have difficulty in actually casting darker magic, you mean?” Irving replied. 

 

“Perhaps she just wants people to believe that,” came the retort. 

 

“That seems awfully cunning for a girl who resorted to fisticuffs for being taunted,” Wynne said. 

 

“Fisticuffs AND magic. She had the lads in traps if you bothered to read the report of the incident,” Vimar added. 

 

The Knight-Commander knocked on the door frame as he entered.  _Finally, someone who bothers to use their mind,_ Irving thought. 

 

“Ah, Commander. How are the others? What did you discover?” 

 

Greagoir sniffed and favored the male senior mages with a disapproving look before replying. “Enchanter Alara was genuinely afraid her student would come to harm and acted accordingly. She did not do it out of malice. I am inclined to believe her. As for the girl, she appears to be… well, not all there. I doubt she could manage to read a book in her current state, much less plot anything nefarious.” 

 

Irving nodded. “If you would, please have Senior Enchanters Vimar and Uldred escorted to their quarters, where they shall remain until summoned.”

 

Vimar hung his head while Uldred sputtered angrily. The Knight-Captain and Ser Tomar moved to escort the men from the office. Once the men were gone, Irving sighed and regarded Wynne and Greagoir.

 

“Your thoughts on the situation?” 

 

\---

 

Ser Isabet had guided her to the small room, one of the guest quarters. She’d said it would be safer for her to stay there rather than the girls’ dorm. At least for a few days. The templar had seemed like she… cared? She’d sat with the girl until the shivering had stopped. Isabet had said things in a reassuring tone, but Sevarra couldn’t remember what had been said.

 

She didn’t remember taking off her slippers. The cold bothered her feet, so she cautiously slid them under the blankets. This felt odd. This wasn’t her bed, or her pillow, or her blankets. Her journal was under her pillow back in the dorm. She felt uneasy without it. She felt uneasy about a great many things.

 

A fight. Her mistress had gotten into a fight. Her mistress had gotten into a fight with a senior enchanter. Her mistress had gotten into a fight with a senior enchanter  _because of her._ It hadn’t been a juvenile scuffle like she herself had instigated the other week. This had been between fully trained mages. It had been  _terrifying._

 

She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t get the images out of her mind. Fire had flown, thunder and lightning had been used. The very things her mistress had discouraged her from doing because it would make regular people scared of all mages. Alara had pushed her into the corner and shielded her with her own body. The feeling of so much energy being used had been both fascinating and frightening. Maker only knew what would have happened if not for the Knight-Commander bursting in on the scene.

 

Was it strange that some deeply hidden part of her had awakened and wanted to one day duel another mage? For fun, of course, not to the death or any sort of mauling. Dear Maker, what was  _wrong_ with her?! Why did she even have those sort of thoughts?! 

 

She couldn’t shake the image of Senior Enchanter Uldred’s face as he’d accused her of using blood magic, of killing Whitebark. His face had been twisted with such anger.  _But I don’t know any blood magic!_ she’d whimpered. That had done nothing to dissuade him. Her mistress had gotten hurt  _because of her._ If only she hadn’t been in that room practicing her hexing past lights-out. If only she hadn’t gotten into that fight last week. If only… 

 

Her sniffling came to an abrupt and frightened stop with the soft rapping on her door. Who was it? Was one of the senior mages, come to finish the job? Or perhaps the Templars had deemed her a trouble-maker and best made Tranquil? She wanted to hide or run. But where would she run? There was nowhere to hide in the tower, not for long. She was frozen in place as the door slowly opened. 

 

“Neria?”

 

The elf smiled sadly and held a finger in front of her lips as she softly closed the door. Waiting for several heartbeats after it closed, she softly sat on the bed and pulled the smaller girl into her arms. Sevarra let herself relax after letting loose a sob of frustration and relief. She'd come back?

 

“They wouldn’t let me come around, always turned me away when I’d try. When I saw the guard in the hall run off in a panic, I had to… I had to make sure you were okay.”

 

Sapphire eyes peered anxiously over her, gazing from head to toe. Leaning in, Neria gently cupped her chin before letting their lips meet in a kiss.

 

\---

 

“You know, you’re a lucky git, you know that, Senior Enchanter?” Knight-Captain Davell said flatly.

 

Uldred only grunted in reply. His hands were bound behind his back with a length of rope. Not that it was more than a formality. He could’ve easily summoned fire to burn away his restraints.

 

“The Knight-Commander or First Enchanter could’ve had you sent to the dungeon rather than your quarters. No one would’ve batted an eye at it if they had, either. That might be safer for you, once word gets out. Trying to attack a kid. Making an old woman frightened enough to retaliate….” the templar shook his head.

 

They came to a stop at the Senior Enchanter’s personal quarters. Davell roughly untied the rope and gave the mage a shove into the doorway. He quietly gave instructions to two templars who had been guarding the hallway to station themselves by Uldred’s quarters instead.

 

“Were I you, ser, I’d be praying to the Maker and Andraste for your superiors to be merciful. Maker knows I wouldn’t be, were it my call to make,” Davell growled at the mage before leaving.

 

The door was shut and locked. After the telltale sound of metal plated footfalls faded away, the mage sat at his desk in an annoyed huff. That old fool Alara had to be covering for her pet, he just knew it. Her pet had been at the scene of both deaths. Once was bad luck. Twice was something intentional. He did not believe in coincidence.

 

He stormed over to his overstuffed bookshelves and carefully removed a set of hollow false tomes, retrieving a pair of small valuable manuals, yellowed with age. It had not been easy having them smuggled into the tower. They were transcriptions of studies on blood magic. Blood magic, naturally, was a highly restricted subject of study in the Circle. Obviously, someone else in the tower was indulging in prohibited magic. He needed to read up on the subject so he could better identify it and put a stop to it. Once he vindicated himself, he’d see about getting himself a better position befitting his talents and heroism.

 

 _Watch yourself, you soft old fool of a First Enchanter,_ he thought.


	11. Magic, Staves, and Singing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath and the process of getting on with things.

Vimar sat on the edge of his bed, clutching his head in his hands. It had been decades since he’d last gotten into a magical scuffle with another mage. He’d been a boy back in Ansburg’s Circle when that had happened. He’d been so intent, so convinced… Maker, that apprentice was never going to trust him again, he just knew it.

 

Of course, he had bigger worries than the shattered trust of a student. He could find himself locked in the dungeon and conveniently “forgotten about” until he was nothing more than a pile of bones. He knew for a fact that particular thing had happened more than once to problematic residents of the tower. Granted, that was during the previous First Enchanter’s leadership. Irving preferred “carrots” instead of “sticks” when he could afford the luxury of benevolence. But sometimes a stick was needed.

 

There was also the traditional worry about Tranquility or death. He was getting up in years, he wouldn’t be much good for labor as a Tranquil for too many years. Or the Knight-Commander could insist on death. Greagoir had taken it upon himself to intervene once spells had started being used. The Senior Enchanter whimpered as the last of the headache held tenaciously on, the after effect of taking most of the brunt of a templar’s Holy Smite. In spite of his stern nature, Greagoir did not use force unless there was a compelling reason for it. If Vimar were extremely lucky, perhaps he’d “only” find himself stripped of rank and sent away to another Circle.

 

Why _had_ he been so insistent on getting the girl to talk as soon as possible? He should have listened to Wynne. If he had, he wouldn’t be sitting there with the worst headache of his life while feeling the crushing weight of the unknown as he waited for the tower leaders to determine his fate.

 

Answers. The thirst for answers to who had killed Gustav, and now Whitebark, had made him lose his focus. He’d never heard of a murder taking place in a Circle before, let alone two. The needling desire to know who had done it and why had overridden his good sense. Now, he had to wait to hear the answer to a different question: What would his fate be?

 

***

 

Sevarra awoke slowly. She didn’t recognize the room, or the too-large bed she was in. A soft snoring and a strange arm tightly clutched around her middle informed the girl that she wasn’t alone. She looked over her shoulder in an attempt to see just what in the world was going on. On top of the blankets, fast asleep and still clad in her robes, was Neria.

 

Slowly, the events of the previous evening came back to her. Sneaking away to practice. Finding that body. Alara shielding her from an attack. The Knight-Commander intervening and then Ser Isabet spiriting her away to new quarters. A shiver ran down her spine and fear once again gripped her heart. _What was going to happen?_

 

Apparently, the shiver had been enough to disturb the elf’s sleep. The taller girl blinked a few times as she fully returned to the land of the waking. She smiled after rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

 

“Hey,” the blonde smiled.

 

“Hey,” came the soft reply.

 

Neria eyed the light from the out-of-reach small window. “It’s early yet. We could sneak off for baths before anyone notices we’re gone. Should be less than an hour until Guster starts having breakfast ready for everyone.”

 

Sevarra wondered if they’d bothered to post a guard at her door. A cautious peek out to the hall proved otherwise. The pair quickly padded their way to the girls’ washroom and were near-giddy at having the first pick of the soaps for once. Neria went for a round cake of soap that smelled of roses, while the shorter girl found an oblong hunk of soap that smelled like lilacs. For some reason, the scent brought back hints of long forgotten memories. Lilacs. For some reason, she recalled living near a bush that had been bursting with those particular blooms. That and a woman with long, dark hair. She was always smiling. Who had she been?

 

She shook the old memories away and got on with the business of getting washed up and dressed. She welcomed what bits of normalcy she could get her hands on. She crept as quietly as she could toward her bunk and her trunk at the foot of it, not wanting to wake the other girls who were still dozing. Extracting a clean set of robes, a set of smalls, and her comb, she scurried back to the washroom for a mirror. She carefully wove most of her inky black pin-straight hair into a braid after dressing. Once she was done, she grinned and helped Neria put her golden mane into a braided crown, a few wisps left loose to frame her face. They hugged and plotted to meet up at mealtime.

 

That done, she sneaked her way back to the room Ser Isabet had stashed her in the previous night. Not even 10 minutes later, rapping at the door announced the lady templar’s arrival. If the knight had noticed that her charge was freshly washed and in a clean set of clothes, she made no comment on it.

 

“Come along, dear. Time to get some food into our bellies,” Isabet chirped. She escorted the student to the dining hall, the smell of fresh sweet rolls and hot tea practically guiding them.

 

***

 

All things considered, Alara decidedly did not like waking up in the infirmary as a patient. It just wasn’t the order of things. A healer was supposed to be giving treatment, not receiving it. Lonna and Wynne opened the door and quietly made their way to her bedside.

 

“Ah, you’re awake,” the Senior Enchanter said softly.

 

Alara winced as her superior made the sconces in the room flicker to life with small flames. Blast it, it was too early for this. She just wanted to go back to her quarters and sleep in her own damned bed. Except getting there would’ve probably been too daunting a task on her own. Everything ached from her neck downward.

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

A growl answered Wynne’s question.

 

“Try again using words this time.”

 

“I feel like I was in a two-against-one fight and came out the loser. And then run over by a wagon. Other than that, just peachy,” the healer grumbled.

 

 _Honestly, how sodding clueless do you have to be to ask that after what happened the other night? You were right there and saw the whole thing_ , Alara fumed silently. _And did nothing_.

 

Lonna helped the injured mage sit up and then dutifully gave her a mug of tea. Alara could taste the hint of elfroot in it. Not her favorite flavor, but Maker knew she needed the stuff to dull the pain after the other night. Wynne began looking her over with a critical eye, pausing now and then to murmur a healing spell.

 

As her body was mended, her heart and mind burned with indignation and cold fury. Never before, in all her years in the Circle, as full-fledged mage or apprentice, had she ever been attacked. Nor had she ever seen a mage have the gall to attack a student before. She’d acted purely out of instinct, summoning up a barrier and making it as strong as she could. It had protected against the worst of the spells sent her way, but not all of it. A set of electrical burns running down her forearms were a testament to that.

 

Alara growled. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Wynne. I have lessons to give today.”

 

“You aren’t going anywhere but your quarters, my dear. I can tell when someone is trying to hide how badly they’ve been hurt. You’d be utterly terrible at Wicked Grace,” the other healer said.

 

Sea-green eyes glowered balefully at unmoved pale blue orbs. The not-quite unstoppable object met the unmovable wall. Wynne had the tiniest of smirks as she reached for a salve and began smoothing it over the burns. Alara winced at the sting but knew it the stuff would go a long ways toward fending off pain in the future, in addition to encouraging faster healing. She did not like being a patient, not one bit.

 

“Not even two weeks ago, I had people on my case for my apprentice apparently not being up to snuff on certain spells. She has ground she needs to cover and needs guidance.”

 

“Yes, well, not even two weeks ago, you weren’t hurt in a fight defending your student. You need rest,” Wynne said.

 

“Using my voice won’t wear me out,” Alara grumbled.

 

“I know you too well. I’d give it less than an hour before you tried to cast a spell. If you want to heal properly, you need to rest, to not push yourself for a while.”

 

Of all the… using her own words against her! She’d used the same phrase to many a mage over the years. It galled to be on the receiving end of them.

 

“If you’re so insistent, dictate a note to Lonna. I’ll see what I can do while you’re recuperating,” Wynne sighed. After wrapping her patient’s arms in bandages, the senior enchanter took her leave.

 

Alara glared into her mug after draining the last of the tea. She wouldn’t have considered her current train of thought even two days ago but in light of recent events…

 

“Lonna, be a dear and grab paper and pencil. I need you to take down a note for me and run it to our dear Senior Enchanter.”

 

***

 

Wynne had not liked the note’s contents. They weren’t insulting, rude or even mildly bad mannered. She had gone to consult the First Enchanter, who had merely nodded and suggested she either do it or allow him to take care of it. What the note said, what Alara had wanted, wasn’t something the Senior Enchanter was keen on. Reluctantly, she left the matter, and the note, in Irving’s hands.

 

Irving sat for a little while, pondering the note on his desk. Considering Alara’s preference for pacifism, the note’s request was a little bit unusual.

 

_Teach her to defend herself. Start with a staff. A real one, not a practice one._

 

He could do that, easily. Providing the girl could hold a staff properly. Her mentor _had_ specified a live one, not a practice model. He’d go peruse the armory and plan from there.

 

***

 

After the midday meal, Ser Isabet had once again rounded up Sevarra. The apprentice was confused. Normally, this time of day, she’d go to the infirmary for lessons with her Mistress. _Oh. Right._ The events of the previous night most likely had forcibly changed plans. She silently followed the knight up a couple of flights of stairs, curious about where they were headed.

 

The morning had been mostly unremarkable, baring the fear gnawing at the pit of her stomach and the nervous watching of… pretty much everyone, uncertain who would step out of line and start something. It had made trying to concentrate during her arithmetic lesson a challenge. Trying to read the assigned chapters for that afternoon’s history lesson had been nearly futile. She stopped every other paragraph to see if anyone was near enough to sneak up on her. She was about to get up and slink away to one of her hiding places when the templar had found her.

 

She didn’t recognize the floor they were on as Isabet opened the door to their destination. She looked all around. The room was empty of people, except for herself, the knight and a solemn-faced First Enchanter. Behind him stood a rack with an array of staves, no two of them quite the same. On the opposite end of the room were several straw targets and a pair of burlap bags stuffed with straw roughly in the shape of men.

 

“Ah, thank you for bringing her promptly, Ser Isabet,” Irving said.

 

The knight nodded and took her place next to the door, standing guard.

 

“In light of recent events,” the First Enchanter said, “I’ll be conducting your lesson for today. Tell me, child, what do you know of staves?”

 

This was today’s lesson? With the First Enchanter himself? She didn’t know whether to feel honored or frightened. Where was Mistress? Was she going to be okay?

 

She answered the First Enchanter’s question with a shy shrug of the shoulders and, “That they’re made of wood and are a weapon. Beyond that, nothing.”

 

“Close your eyes. Feel around with your sensing. Do you detect anything other than ourselves?” the elder said.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut and waited a moment for her extra sense to come into focus. There was the background noise of her own magic, the equivalent of a massive roaring fire that was Irving and… six smaller thrumming sensations, coming from the rack the staves were resting upon. She opened her eyes and nodded.

 

He smiled softly and glided to the weapon rack. He motioned for her to approach. She followed cautiously. Her eyes were owlishly looking over the six staves resting there.

 

“Every staff is unique, even if they have many things in common. Some are in tune with fire, others with the arcane, and yet more with something else entirely. Have a good look. Listen to them. Which one is singing to you?”

 

Singing to her? What a strange notion! But he’d know about it than she would, yes? She scanned them. One was cherry wood with an oval-shaped hunk of amber embedded a couple inches from the top. Next to it were a pair of walnut staves, one holding a square chalcedony and the other an orange carnelian orb as toppers. Next to those were two beech staves, one embedded with an alluring purple circle of fluorite, while the other sported a colorless quartz. The final one was a length of oak that had a trio of pale green jade squares circling its cap.

 

She closed her eyes and listened intently. One of them… sounded like herself. Not her singing voice, but the quiet melody her magic emitted, the tune she could only hear in near-absolute silence and with deep concentration. She pointed her hand and then opened her eyes. Her finger was hovering by the walnut staff with the square chalcedony at its top. “This one.”

 

Irving smirked. Of course that one would call to her. Ice magic came to the girl with ease. “Ah, a good choice for you. Pick it up, you’ll use that one for today’s lesson.”

 

Pick it up? As in… actually wield a weapon? She looked to him questioningly. He nodded patiently. Well, if he said it was okay, it was okay, right? Cautiously, she wrapped her fingers around the staff and took it from the rack. Right away, she could feel the power humming in the deep brown wood. It seems to be “singing” in harmony with her own magic. She looked at the weapon in awe.

 

“Is… is it supposed to feel like this?” It felt nice. Too nice. Surely something was going to go wrong.

 

“If you picked the right one, it should feel like it is singing with you, yes,” he replied.

 

He guided her to the middle of the room and pointed to the practice targets set up opposite them.

 

“Today, we shall work on aim.”

 

***

 

He padded quietly to the nearly-forgotten part of the library. He liked lurking there alone with his thoughts and a good book. He’d even managed to scavenge a few cushions to make the spot comfy. No one would miss a pillow here and another there when spread out over several weeks. And the Tranquil could easily make replacements.

 

He froze in his tracks and scowled as soft, girlish whispers and giggles reached his ears. Was someone already there, in _his spot?_ The nerve! How dare they enjoy the spot he’d carefully pilfered to furnish! Scowling, he peered from a gap between dusty bookshelves. Two young apprentices, who couldn’t be more than 15 each, were hogging the pillows while several textbooks – assignments from their instructors, no doubt-- lay scattered about the small hideaway.

 

He turned away in a silent huff. He didn’t even care to bother discovering what they were giggling about. He needed somewhere quiet, comfortable. Somewhere he could have privacy to plan. It was wearing on him, this double life. He’d just come from giving his apprentice his lessons for the day. The lad was skilled with the ‘darker’ magics, he could go far, if not for so many rules restricting what could and could not be researched. Assuming they’d even let the lad have the chance to take the Harrowing. Some Circles were utterly paranoid about who would be allowed the “honor” to risk death and prove they were beyond the temptation of demons. He had the ugly worry that they would needlessly brand his student a danger and force Tranquility upon him, instead.

 

He wandered the halls for a short while, heading nowhere in particular. There was his hidden lair, where his projects were stowed. But he’d rather not head there during daylight and draw curious eyes. And he didn’t want to think about the concoction for a little while. Taking lives weighed heavily on him, even if they were a necessary sacrifice. The most recent batch had been good, much better than the last one, but still not good enough.

 

He found himself a touch homesick for the Circle fortress in Markham, with its vast tree-lined courtyard that mages and students could freely roam during daylight hours. It had always cleared his mind and gave him a sense of calm. Kinloch was in the middle of a lake, on one tiny island, and her templars were so much more strict than the ones he’d grown up around.

 

He let himself out by way of a door in the kitchen and made his way to the relatively new gazebo. Other than a pair of Tranquil tending the vegetable garden and one elderly templar relaxing by the dock, there wasn’t much in the way of people there. Taking a seat under the blue and yellow roof, he sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Making changes to old systems was always hard work. But he couldn’t give up, not now. He suspected his apprentice’s future well-being depended on it. The boy couldn’t help what his affinity was, even if it was a less commonly seen one.

 

Thanks to centuries of Chantry dogma, dark magics were a source of shame, of fear. Magic was just a tool. What one did with the tool determined any good or evil to be had. Fire could be used to warm a hearth, to cook food, or set a village on fire. Did that make fire good or evil? A small voice in his mind asked the question: _Is what I’m doing evil?_ He shook it away with a snarl. Sometimes a bit of pain had to be given to ensure a future good; much like re-breaking a badly healed bone and ensuring it was set properly.

 

***

 

She walked away from her lesson with the First Enchanter in considerably better spirits than when she had arrived. The resonating from the staff she’d practiced with still hummed in her mind. She began to see why the enchanters clung to their staves, even when just doing day to day things in the tower. Who wouldn’t want to have something so comforting at hand?

 

A sense of dread clenched her gut. Sod, her history lesson was next, and she hadn’t finished reading the chapters yet! Cursing under her breath, she scurried off to class and hoped to take one of the desks in the back row, perhaps avoiding the instructor’s notice. Unlikely, but worth a try.

 

Anders shot her an amused smirk as she crawled into a corner desk. She normally sat somewhere in the first two rows, raptly paying attention. She gave a sheepish smile in reply, fishing a fresh quill from her pack. If she noticed the change in seating, Enchanter Lynn, the one chosen to fill Gustav’s post, said nothing as she began the lesson. Sevarra silently gave thanks that it wasn’t about Orlais, she couldn’t quite separate the subject from Gustav’s death just yet.

 

Halfway through the lesson, a folded up note poked her in the side. Trying very carefully to avoid the teacher’s notice, she read the tiny, spidery script. _Are you okay?_

 

Gossip had the quickest of feet in the tower. Maker only knew what he had heard to make him ask that. _Complicated. Talk later?_ She tried to wait until Enchanter Lynn had her back turned before passing the paper back.


	12. Elfroot and Rum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alara gets salty, a certain enchanter is up to no good, and a student gets in over her head.

_There must have been more than just tea leaves and elfroot in that tea,_ she thought upon waking. Alara groaned in pain when she tried to sit up. _At least I’m in my own damn bed._ One of the Tranquil, Evret, sat up from his seat where he’d been mending a set of robes to pass the time.

 

“Enchanter, do you require anything?” he asked in his monotone voice.

 

She blinked away the haze of pain. Her arms ached ferociously. Wynne had been right, there was no way she’d be able to cast a spell that day without incurring yet more discomfort. She was angry and in pain, not a fit state to be teaching anything other than perhaps the “colorful” curses her sailor uncle had taught her as a child.

 

“Tea. Please.”

 

Evret nodded. “Senior Enchanter Wynne told me to remind you to remain in your quarters and rest. She will be by later to see you. I shall return with tea.”

 

The door softly clicked with the Tranquil mage’s departure. The healer sank back down into the pillows on her bed with a heavy sigh. She was left alone with thoughts that went down roads she rarely cared to travel. Why had Uldred and Vimar both accused her mouse of a student of blood magic? Were they insane? Or was she not seeing something they had? She hadn’t believed the news about the girl getting into a brawl until reading Eileen’s account of the incident. But reactive wasn’t the same thing as aggressive. Sevarra had run away crying the one time she’d seen the cook and his helpers killing chickens for dinner last year. Alara somehow found it hard to believe someone who couldn’t stomach a chicken’s death capable of practicing blood magic.

 

Her mind was eager for anything but the uncomfortable questions that were swimming in it. Chickens. The girl hadn’t willingly eaten meat, as uncommon as it was in the tower, for months afterward. It didn’t do her any favors, she was still much too small for someone her age. All the elves close to the girl’s age stood taller than her apprentice. Seeing as the girl was human, that was a bit of an issue. She was creeping closer and closer to the age where girls stopped growing upwards and started filling out instead. The healer had half a mind to see if something could be done about it alchemically.

 

The opening of the door drew her out of her thoughts. Wynne strolled in with a tray holding a mug of tea and a steaming bowl of… something. The smell reminded the enchanter’s belly that she hadn’t eaten since supper the previous night. Alara made quick work of the soup after a grateful smile. Once the worst of the hunger was banished, she slowly sipped on the tea. More elfroot in it. Ah well. Better to endure the muddy taste than the pain, no?

 

“I’m guessing you sent Evret off on some important errand?” she asked her superior.

 

Wynne chuckled. Alara was never one for dancing around a subject. “Aye. No need for an extra set of ears. Do you want to talk about the other night?”

 

The enchanter puckered her mouth as if she’d eaten a lemon. _Now she acts chummy? Doing something the other night other than staring with her mouth agape would’ve been more useful._

 

“You were there. What is there to talk about?”

 

The senior enchanter sighed as she sank into the chair beside the bed. “Well, for one thing, do you have any… suspicions? Do you have any ideas about what could’ve made them suspect your pupil? Have you noticed any unusual behavior lately?”

 

Alara felt magma roil in her belly. _Wynne, too? Were all of the senior enchanters slowly going mad? Had the drinking water been tainted?_

 

“The only ‘suspicious’ behavior I have noticed lately has been on the part of senior enchanters going on a witch hunt and hounding a scared mouse of a girl. You bloody well know how uncommon a student with a talent for healing is! All of this… this… nonsense is interfering with her instruction!”

 

Wynne sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d hoped for a scrap of… something. Anything, really. Anything but the apparent madness on the part of Harrowed mages. Two men dead in less than a year didn’t help matters. After changing out the bandages from the morning in silence, the senior enchanter took her leave. Later, in the library, a nearly too quiet whisper pulled her from her research.

 

“E-excuse me? Senior Enchanter?”

 

She looked up from her tome to find Alara’s apprentice nervously standing across the table from her. Her little friend -- well, not so little anymore, the boy was sprouting upward like a weed -- Jowan stood a couple of paces behind her.

 

“Yes, child?” she asked.

 

“W-will she be alright? M-my mistress, that is.”

 

The elder sighed sadly. “She will need time to recover. It will be a while before things return to something close to normal.”

 

The girl’s shoulders sank as her expression fell. She nodded and quietly left, Jowan quickly putting an arm over her shoulders.

 

Routine was something that the tower’s residents relied on and cherished. Routine kept the apprentices calm and safe, or at least safer. It gave some small bit of comfort, knowing what would happen and when. Routine helped to counteract the stress of learning to control one’s magic; an oasis of certainty in the turmoil that mages suffered while growing up. Many mentors often became something of a surrogate parent to their apprentices. To have such an important person taken away, even temporarily, had to be very stressful.

 

She would need to be watched closely, the elder decided. One slip was all it took. One moment of weakness or heartache could lead to poor choices, or worse. There would be no abominations on her watch.

 

**

 

“You sure? It’s no trouble.”

 

“I’m sure. Thanks, though.”

 

“Alright then. But if you change your mind...”

 

“You’ll be the first to know if that happens.”

 

 _That had been far too close for comfort,_ he thought as the other enchanter padded away down the hall. His lair had nearly been discovered. He couldn’t have that, he couldn’t have people finding out. No, that would be bad.

 

He sighed and let himself into the locked room, murmuring an alarm spell over it after locking himself inside. He would have to hide his most recent concoction somewhere else. He couldn’t take the chance. If one enchanter had bumbled near his lair, chances were high that another would, too, and probably get far too curious about the locked door.

 

 _Ugh, Maker. What a mess!_ He’d taken care to not target anyone who currently had an apprentice. He’d seen how that healer’s poor girl was reeling. He took a breath and sternly reminded himself that the healer’s injuries were someone else’s doing, not his own. It wasn’t his fault if others were foolish enough to resort to force instead of using reason.

 

 _Reason? Is that what you’re calling it? Why don’t you just admit that you have them scared witless, that you have them snapping at shadows, paranoid?_ The small voice in his mind stung him as it retorted. _First the healer, who will be next? Who will be the next “accident” in your little crusade?_

 

He started humming a song to drown out the uncomfortable voice. He began rifling through the cabinets and placing vials into a wooden box. They were the most damning of his creations and needed to be relocated first. The liquid in them shifted from red to black and back again lazily while emitting a dull glow. They were tightly corked and sealed with wax, otherwise, their scent would have readily given away the fact that they were the result of blood magic.

 

A bit of boiled deathroot extract, some dried rashvine blossoms, a healthy scoop or three of lyrium dust, several drops of blood and a little something… special, before being enchanted with a spell of his own design. The blood made certain that only living things would be affected. There was no need for mindless destruction of property, after all. He was a revolutionary, not a savage.

 

He held his breath as he peered down both sides of the hall before scurrying away with his precious cargo. He had an idea of where to put this particular box. No one really liked going into the lowest level of the stockrooms, where spiders the size of dogs sometimes came in to spend the winter months. He’d stolen the spare key, so it was just a matter of waiting until there were no eyes near the door to watch him.

 

He sighed in relief as the mages in the room that hosted the stockroom’s locked doors wandered away toward the dining hall in search of supper. He fished the key from the chain around his neck and let himself in, preparing a couple of attack spells just in case the local spiders objected to some company.

 

**

 

“I don’t see why we have to memorize these… these… names. It’s not like any of them have ever come to the tower,” she grumbled, folding her arms in front of herself with a huff.

 

“I don’t, either,” he replied, “but it’s going to be on the next exam, I just know it. Besides, it’s kind of sad that you don’t even know the name of your-- our-- own Bann.”

 

Enchanter Lynn had switched directions in the history course in favor of something local, very local: the nobility of the surrounding areas. Her excuse was that the apprentices could one day find themselves assigned to one of the noble houses at the behest of the Circle or Chantry. It would reflect poorly on the Circle if its mages did not at least have a basic understanding of their patrons’ history. Technically, Kinloch Hold was on land that belonged to the West Hill bannorn. It had been more than a century since any of the banns running the place bothered to visit, however. It would seem that so long as no trouble came out of the tower, the banns were content to let the mages and Templars tend to their business undisturbed.

 

“Try again, the current bann is…?” the honey-blond apprentice prompted his companion.

 

“T-Tom.. no. Teoric?” she bumbled for an answer, hoping it was right.

 

He peered into his notes. “Well, you’ve gotten one right, so far,” he said with a chuckle.

 

“Have you ever met one, Anders?”

 

“Met what?”

 

“A-a bann? Or Arl? Or Teyrn? Maker, I still don’t even know what the difference between all of those titles means!” she sighed.

 

He sighed and ran a hand through his loose hair, for once not having tied it back. For someone so smart, she sure was ignorant of things that happened outside of the Circle’s tower.

 

“Teyrns are second only to the crown in power. There are only two of them: One in Highever and one in Gwaren. Arls are the next step down. There’s five of those. Banns are the lowest of the lot. And I’ve only met one, I was very small then. He’d come to visit the mayor of the village I was living in.”

 

“What was he like?” she asked.

 

“The bann? Uhm… really pudgy. And hairy. Bushiest beard I’d ever seen.”

 

He didn’t enjoy talking about life before the Circle, it dug up memories and made him miss his mother and brothers even more. But she had even fewer memories outside of the Circle than he did. She didn’t even remember her family, or what had happened to them. She only knew she’d come from one of the bigger cities by the sea. She’d never seen a cow, run wild in a field, or played with dogs; things he’d taken for granted before he’d been stolen by the Templars.

 

The tower’s bell tolled six times, announcing that supper was to be had. He was somewhat relieved. He was both hungry and not eager to speak of his personal history any further. After carefully stowing their notes and putting books back on shelves, the pair shuffled to the dining hall, joining the growing crowd. Sevarra trotted ahead and caught Neria in a hug at the group’s usual corner.

 

Several minutes later, the rest of the band took seats on the benches on either side of the long table. Jowan had brought a new friend along with him, a shy looking boy with auburn hair and sea-blue eyes.

 

“Hey, this here is Karl. He’s going to join us,” the hawk-nosed apprentice grinned, ushering the shorter young man on to a bench across from Anders.

 

Anders felt his heart leap into his throat. _Holy Maker!_ Something about the newcomer’s eyes drew him in and made him not want to look at anything else. He had to fight to make his mouth and voice obey him before he could introduce himself.

 

**

 

She sobbed as she ran and hid, diving into the repository, praying to not be found. He’d told her it was safe, harmless. Just a little trick to boost her spells. No one would ever find out, he’d assured her. But that hadn’t been true.

 

The cuts on her arm ached, several just barely scabbed over. It had made the spell more powerful. She’d been struggling for ages to barely light a candle. It had aroused suspicions when she’d made a fireball the size of a man’s head during practice drills. She hadn’t been as careful as she should’ve been. A couple of drops of blood had fallen to the floor next to her feet.

 

She’d panicked and ran. There really wasn’t anywhere to go in the tower if the doors were locked. She’d only gotten into the nearly forgotten storeroom because she’d stolen a key from the templar she’d seduced a few weeks ago. Eonie shivered and tried to calm herself. Panic meant loss of control. Loss of control meant free-flowing magic, which made it easier for templars and teachers to find an errant apprentice.

 

She heard the stomping of armored feet drawing closer. She did all she could to calm her mind, to make it blank. After several heartbeats, the stomping grew faint, as if they’d left for other places. The apprentice pulled herself out of the tight little nook she’d jammed herself into when the sound of a key sliding into a lock made her blood freeze.

 

**

 

Irving sighed and rubbed his temples after reading the report on his desk. Another apprentice had turned to blood magic. This one had only tried to boost the spells she was being tested on, none of them malicious or even potentially capable of mind control. However, rules were rules. He could feel Greagoir’s eyes glaring daggers at him as he pretended to read the page again.

 

 _If there were any other way…_ He thought sadly. One mistake shouldn’t ruin a life. He shook his head sadly and signed his name next to the Knight-Commander’s at the bottom of the report. Eonie would be taken to the Harrowing chamber that night and made Tranquil. It was the third such punishment in as many months. There could be no exceptions to the bans on blood magic and demon-summoning.

 

“Just… make it quick. Don’t make her suffer more than necessary,” the First Enchanter sighed.

 

The Knight-Commander sniffed and left the office, documents in hand.

 

Irving pulled a flask from one of the hidden compartments of his desk. He took a long pull, grimacing at the burn of the liquid as it traveled down his throat. He may have to play by the rules, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

 


	13. The Company We Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something goes disastrously wrong, one student's practice pays off, another sees the error of their ways, and something fishy is afoot.

“No, no, no! Do it again! And pay more attention this time!”

 

Jowan sighed. His master had become tense and exacting ever since the thing with Enchanter Whitebark happened. That meant he got extra drills and extra assignments to go with the extra stress of seeing one of his best friends struggle with recent events.

 

_Focus. Breathe. Stillness. Keep emotion in balance._

 

He closed his eyes and forced his breathing to remain calm and steady. After several heartbeats, he opened his eyes and went through the gestures of summoning the flame, much like a dancer would practice his steps. He talked himself through the movements silently in his mind. _Form the archway._ Fingertips met above his head. _Pull down the energy._ Palms pressed together and came to rest in front of his breastbone. _Open the gate._ Arms straighten and palms turned to face outwards. _Let the energy flow out._ A gout of flame sprang to life and launched itself away from him, sailing toward the practice targets before enveloping all four of the straw-men in fire.

 

“A little bit better. But you need to be quicker. Your movements need to be smoother, lad,” his master said, with at least less irritation in his voice. “You want the fireball to be flying away from you before your enemy even has an idea of what you’re up to.”

 

 _Why worry about combat? It’s not like we ever leave the tower. What’s got his goat so badly?_ Jowan thought.

 

Enchanter Levys went on to harp about the finer points of speedy fire summoning, most of which went into one of the apprentice’s ears and promptly slid out the other. Not that the instructor noticed the glazed look of boredom on his student’s eyes. After the man had expended more energy than intended on his rant, he sighed and growled that he expected the next three chapters of _“Pennyrose’s Treatise of Primal Ice and Fire and Their Practical Applications”_ to be read and ready to be discussed in two day’s time. With that, he waved the lad away to do what he wished with the hours until supper.

 

Levys sat and ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair after he’d been certain his student had left. _Maker, what a mess._ There were three students in as many months who had been made Tranquil. He’d had the misfortune of seeing Eonie the morning after the Rite had been performed. Lifeless, indifferent, cold. Nothing at all like the sweet-natured, if lacking in magical talent, young woman she’d been. She’d been nowhere near ready for her Harrowing, nor had she expressed any desire to undergo Tranquility.

 

Come to think of it, the other two victims, Hubert and Maycen, hadn’t expressed any fear of magic, their own or that of anyone else. Maycen had been especially ambitious, always studying and practicing. Levys almost could’ve sworn the senior enchanters were prepared to suggest him to Irving and Greagoir as a candidate for the Harrowing soon. What could he have possibly done to merit Tranquility instead? Hubert had been… mediocre nearly his entire life, hardly noticed by anyone for anything. It was puzzling.

 

Two of the newly-Tranquil mages had been rushed away from the tower in the dead of night before too many students who’d known them before could see them. It always scared the kids to see a new Tranquil when it had been someone they’d known, someone who had not explicitly stated a desire to become that way. That said, Eonie was now learning her duties in the stockroom, under the charge of another Tranquil, Owain.

 

If they were picking apprentices willy-nilly and butchering their minds, what was to stop them from picking an innocent whose only fault lay in that he had a natural affinity for the darker magics? The boy could no more stop doing that than he could force his heart to stop beating! He had to get him prepared to fight, to do whatever it took to save himself. The lad was affable, smart and impish, but also a little too trusting. Misplaced trust could get him killed, or worse.

 

**

 

“Did you hear?”

 

“Hear what?”

 

“They found out Eonie. They got her, she’s Tranquil now. I saw her in the stockroom with Owain.”

 

The pair of apprentices shuddered in horror. They knew what they’d dabbled in, what they’d been shown by a friendly teacher only wanting to help, or so he’d claimed, was not permitted in the Circle. Eonie had been the third one to vanish of their little band. Hubert and then Maycen had vanished with no clue as to their fates.

 

“M-maybe we should stop. Stop using it, I mean. What if one of us is next? Them Templars are wicked clever.”

 

“But we aren’t using it to cause any harm to anyone. We’re just using it to boost our own spells, to give them a bit ‘oompf!’ I certainly don’t wanna control anyone’s mind. Do you?”

 

“Sweet Maker, no! But I don’t want to end up Tranquil, either! For all we know, Maycen and Hubert are dead! Do you wanna wind up dead?”

 

“We’d only wind up dead if we’re stupid. And are you seriously going to let that show-off Jowan stay up on his little pedestal? Blighter needs to be taken down a peg or two, don’t you think?”

 

The sound of heavily-plated boots walking down the hall caused the pair to freeze up and fall silent. After what seemed a little too long of a pause uncomfortably near them, the boots’ owner went down the hall and toward the kitchens. It was slightly longer before the apprentices stopped holding their breath.

 

“I still don’t like this, Yan. I don’t like it one bit. I’m gonna stop before something else bad happens.”

 

“You were always such a coward, Mindra. You just gotta be careful, and you’ll be more powerful than anyone else in our year. Nothing worth doing is ever easy. Blood, sweat, tears and all that stuff.”

 

“It’s not worth becoming a soulless puppet over. I ain’t gotta prove nothing to no one other than my master and the teachers. I don’t like having to lie to him about the cuts and stuff. I think he’s starting to have doubts.”  


“Min...”

 

“No. I mean it. I quit. I’m not doing this stuff no more! You should stop it, too, Yan.”

 

“Fine, then! Be a nobody! See if I care. You’ll regret it, wait and see! I’ll be better than that stuffed set of robes!”

 

“This thing you got against Jowan, it ain’t healthy. Maker’s sake, drop it already. Please, Yan, see reason!”

 

Yan glared and left for the library. Mindra had the sinking feeling that the bad things weren’t quite done happening, yet.

 

**

 

A scream made the small pack of apprentices look up from their books. They exchanged looks, a mute fear that kept their rumps firmly on the benches they occupied showed in their eyes. The templar who’d been guarding their area of the library drew his blade with a scowl and trotted toward where the scream had emanated from. The man’s deep-voiced shout further disturbed them.

 

Neria shook off her fear-induced paralysis and pulled Sevarra toward her corner, driven by some gut feeling that something wasn’t right. The human didn’t get a chance to do more than utter a “huh?!” in surprise before the door to the library burst in a shower of wooden splinters. The creature that lumbered through the broken remains was massive as if a large man had become hunch-backed and his skin glowed as if a fire burned beneath the surface. It had long, jagged teeth and eyes that were completely black. Whatever it was, it radiated unseen magic, jangling the delicate magic sensing of every mage and student nearby.

 

The templar yelled a word, a word that the students had always heard whispered with fear or hatred. Just one word.

 

“ABOMINATION!”

 

Fire leaped from his… its?… hands, engulfing a bookshelf that had carried some of the older collections of Orlesian history in the tower, the templar it had been aiming for had narrowly escaped by rolling behind a pillar. The elderly librarian, Marvin, would have shed tears, but he was more occupied with hobbling away from the creature’s potential range of attack. The templar, Ser Evray, was catching his breath, a scowl etched into his features. His grip on his sword’s hilt tightened.

 

One of the apprentices felt himself stand and search for a better line of sight. His heart hammered in his chest, just shy of feeling like it would burst from terror. He got a good look at the creature in all of its horrifying glory. And then… time seemed to stop. He felt like he was watching himself from an observer’s vantage point. His hands danced in the gestures of a spell, his voice calmly, flatly, recited the accompanying chant. Someone was yelling his name, but he needed to focus.

 

The abomination screamed, trembling in place, sick crunching sounds playing accompaniment to its song as one by one, its limbs hung limply. It collapsed as its legs broke, no longer able to support the beast’s bulk. The templar seized his chance and plunged his blade into the monstrosity’s heart. The glow beneath its skin faded from flame orange to an ashy grey.

 

Finally, his senses returned.

 

“JOWAN! What in Andraste’s name are you doing?!” Sevarra called from the corner Neria had trapped her in.

 

He panted and looked down at his hands and then back at the remains of the monster. Had he really just done that? Had he just crushed the monster to death with magic?

 

**

 

Mindra paced back and forth, her worry nearly eating her alive. This wasn’t like Yan. Yan never vanished for more than a day, even when they fought. He was a creature of habit. Every day, a little while before supper, he’d stop by the supply room to filch some paper or parchment for his drawings. She had long since given up trying to guess whether Yan was that good of a thief, or if Owain had deliberately left the young man some scraps to use for his hobby. She had hidden near the storeroom two hours before supper and had stayed there until an hour after the meal was over. Not only was she worried, but her stomach also growled with hunger.

 

_Damn it, Yan. Don’t do this to me. Where in the Void are you?_

 

She was mightily annoyed as she wove her way to the girls’ dorm that night, narrowly avoiding the guards in the halls. In spite of her anger, she shed a few worried tears into her pillow before drifting to sleep. The following morning, after making sure she got some breakfast, she began asking other students if they’d seen any trace of Yan. No one knew anything. No one had seen him after she and he had their little spat the previous day. Her stomach dropped, filled with dread.

 

“Did you hear?” one her classmates whispered to her just before their composition class was set to begin.

 

“Hear what?” she replied, feeling like a lump of ice had formed in her belly.

 

“There was an abomination in the library yesterday! Ser Evray killed it, but not before it set stuff on fire!” the other girl said with a touch of macabre glee.

 

Enchanter Eileen waddled into the classroom, putting any whispered conversations to an end with a stern look.

 

The library. Yan had stormed off to the library yesterday. _No. Maker, no. It couldn’t be… please._

 

A still-healing cut near her elbow throbbed. She knew she was never going to see Yan again. _Never again,_ she swore to herself. _Never, ever, again am I going to touch that sodding blood magic._

 

_**_

“You did well, lad. No matter what anyone else tells you. Remember that.” A hand claps on to his shoulder.

 

There had been… questions. It had felt more like an interrogation. The Knight-Captain had interviewed both him and Ser Evray, sometimes repeating questions, perhaps in hopes of getting a different answer. While everyone else had quailed in fear or stammered in confusion, only he and the templar had taken action. He hadn’t felt fear or anger, he hadn’t felt anything, really. Just the sensation of time standing still and his instincts saying that something had to be done. Wasn’t it like that for other people?

 

“You used your birthright responsibly. You, along with that templar, protected all the people in the library. You used magic in a way it was supposed to be used. I’m proud,” Enchanter Levys added.

 

Proud. Not many people had told him they were proud of him. Especially not his parents. He still remembered the cutting words his “mother” had used when referring to him, as if he were a pile of refuse spoiling a newly-bought carpet instead of a person, her own flesh and blood. His father hadn’t used words like that, but he hadn’t stopped mother from using them, either. No, he couldn’t understand the apprentices who cried themselves to sleep at night because they missed “home.” They didn’t understand, this was home, it was better than whatever had been before.

 

**

 

Alara was far from pleased. Not that she could do anything about it, however. Word of the attack in the library had reached her a couple of days after the fact. Wynne had only allowed Tranquil and herself to treat the healer as she recuperated. It had been like trying to pull teeth to get the senior enchanter to spill the beans on any noteworthy goings-on. Her apprentice’s little friend, that hawk-nosed boy, Jowan, had apparently been a quick thinker and paralyzed the beast in place, allowing the nearest templar to act and cut the monstrosity down.

 

 _Murders and now abominations. What was the Circle coming to?_ Not even a year ago, things had been sedate, calm, nearly boring. The usual source of any excitement for years had been the arrival of a new student or a new templar to replace one who had opted to retire. Transfers and successful Harrowings also were cause for a mild stir. How she missed those dull days now. “Boring” had been a blessing. Irving pursued “boring” for the Circle with the eagerness that a merchant sought out profit.

 

She still recalled the “excitement” that had taken place under the previous First Enchanter, Remille. He had been Orlesian. He had led a coup and he and his cohorts had taken over the tower. Things had ended… bloodily. She could still see those she couldn’t save when she closed her eyes. Remille had gone mad. Mage and Templar alike had suffered under the Orlesians loyal to him. She’d had to fend off a few herself, hastily summoned fire ever eager to answer her call. Even years later, it swam in her veins, just waiting for her to call. After that uprising, she’d sworn off magics that could kill, unless there was no other way. Fear settled into her stomach.

 

It was evident that the Circle was once again on the path to madness, even if the cause hadn’t yet been discovered. In light of that, was it really sensible to cling to pacifism? Was it even ethical to continue expecting her apprentice to maintain pacifism as well? She growled in frustration. She had no answers yet, and it bothered her. On one hand, they needed to show mundane folk that magic-bearing folk were not a threat. On the other, she knew that one day, young Amell would not have other mages or Templars to watch over her, and would need to be able to defend herself. Why she was so certain of that, she didn’t know, but her gut called it truth.

 

She pushed herself up and out of bed. The Tranquil watching over her, Laren, protested.

 

“Enchanter, please, do not strain yourself. Allow me to fetch for you if you are in need of something. Senior Enchanter Wynne does not--”

 

“--want me leaving bed. I know, sod it. I need to move around, dear. I’ve laid about for far too long. Help me prepare a bath, then go get me some of that burn salve. I’ve things to do and being clean is one of them.”

 

She’d been inactive long enough. It was time to begin rebuilding strength before she lost it for good. If the Maker had deemed that fighting was again going to be a thing in her life, she needed every iota of vigor she could muster.

 

**

 

It hadn’t been easy, sneaking away and finding a place where there weren’t so many ears or eyes to eavesdrop on them. The doors leading outside were under heavier guard than usual, so that had ruled out the gazebo. The library was right out because the memory of the monster was still rather fresh, so no going there unless needed, for a while anyway. An out of the way storeroom near the laundry served as a meeting place.

 

“About what happened, a couple days ago… What you did, I mean,” the human girl started. “I-I.. why did you do what you did? Weren’t you afraid for yourself?”

 

Neria blushed, turning to hide the small smile on her face. “Why do you think?”

 

“Y-you could’ve gotten hurt. You didn’t know if.. if it would’ve gotten past...”

 

 _Past the templar and to where we were sitting_ remained unsaid in the air.

 

“And I’d do it again. Silly thing.” She gently reached over and stroked the human’s cheek.

 

A startled giggle left the elf’s throat after she found herself pulled into a tight hug.

 

**

 

A knocking at his door roused Uldred from his note-taking and studying. _Took them long enough. Which way did they lean, I wonder?_ He carefully hid the tome of blood magic back in its safe space before rising and opening the door.

 

“Yes?” the senior enchanter asked flatly as if he were not a prisoner in his own quarters.

 

“The First Enchanter desires to speak with you,” the Templar said.

 

‘ _Desires’ to speak with me? Not ‘will’ speak with me? Intriguing._

 

“Very well, then. When?”

 

“As soon as possible, senior enchanter,” the knight replied.

 

_My title? Not insults? Interesting._

 

“Lead the way,” Uldred said in a bored tone.


	14. What's "Normal," Anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uldred is up to something and an enchanter is trying to avoid him. Sevarra wonders if things will ever get back to normal.

They didn’t even bother with binding his hands with rope this time, but he did have two templars as an escort while they made their way to the First Enchanter’s office. Curiosity was eating at him, but he kept his features carefully in a mask of disinterest. He would find out what Irving wanted to talk about soon enough.

 

The halls were unusually empty of people, save for two or three templars stationed at their usual guard posts. Odd. Normally mages from apprentices to senior enchanters could be seen drifting in and out of the office of the Circle’s leader. Irving had made it a point to be much more “accessible” than his predecessor. The lack of people was unsettling. One of the templars knocked on the door.

 

“Enter,” came a muffled reply.

 

“Ah, good. Senior Enchanter, I’m pleased you came so soon.” Irving rose from his desk and strode toward the door. “You two may leave us,” he nodded to the templars.

 

Once the knights had taken their leave, the First Enchanter closed and locked the door. He murmured a spell upon the door, and then another upon the windows high above them. He answered the senior mage’s curious look with “One cannot be too careful about uninvited ears trying to eavesdrop.”

 

He continued. “I will be blunt. There have been a troubling number of apprentices who’ve turned to blood magic. A third was made Tranquil several days ago. We do not allow anyone below the rank of senior mage access to what few materials we have on the subject, as you know. It is mystifying how these former students got knowledge of that particular type of magic. Either someone has infiltrated our repository, or worse: someone has taught them blood magic.”

 

“Most troubling, indeed,” Uldred murmured. _Did he have a point, or did the old man just want someone to talk at?_

 

“I have… something of a request,” the elder mage said.

 

 _Ah, finally, the point._ Uldred made a ‘hmm’ noise, prompting him to elaborate.

 

“Recent events have made many parties feel… on edge, yourself included. I would prefer you to focus your efforts on finding who is teaching these apprentices blood magic, or what material they are using to learn it if there is no other mage turning these children down dark paths. And also how to detect it before they can do something… unfortunate. I’m certain gossip of what took place in the library has reached even your ears by now,” Irving sighed.

 

“I’m afraid that hasn’t reached me, I’ve been a bit secluded. Please do enlighten me.”

 

Irving muttered under his breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was an abomination in the library three days ago. We were fortunate that the quick thinking of an apprentice and templar stopped it before it could do anything worse than break a door and burn some books. Wynne said that the creature’s… remains reeked of blood magic.”

 

“And my usual duties?”

 

“Still suspended. You will be with a guard at all times outside of restricted areas and your quarters, until further notice. This is for your benefit. Alara is recovering. We both know she is patient and has a long memory. Take that how you will,” Irving said.

 

Not what he was hoping for, but the senior mage knew when to bide his time and take advantage of the benefits to be had when they arose. “With your leave, I shall begin investigating at once, First Enchanter.”

 

**

 

The bath had hurt more and taken more energy to get done with than she had anticipated. Alara was somewhat relieved that Lonna had hung around to assist her. She sat atop her bed in a fresh change of robes, catching her breath as she waited for both the burn salve and the elfroot-spiked tea to take effect. She wouldn’t dare admit it out loud, but Wynne was right. There would be no spell-casting for her that day or for at least several more days into the future. She hated it. Not being able to use her magic made her feel… naked, defenseless, _helpless._

 

Setting her empty mug on the bedside table with great care, so that she wouldn’t break it, or the table, in her anger, she glowered at the wall. _One of these days, Uldred and Vimar will regret picking a fight,_ she swore to herself. The anger in her belly felt different than the usual annoyance that typically resided there. She took a deep breath and forced herself into a meditative state. Anger would not solve anything at that particular moment.

 

Over an hour later, she hobbled to her study, Lonna following several paces behind. While the lady was Tranquil, she seemed to sense when she may be needed. With some help, the enchanter began drawing up lesson plans. A dog-eared copy of _Errikand’s Essentials of Entropy_ sat open on her desk. _Weak points, first,_ she thought. _You want her ready for a Harrowing? Very well, then. Watch me._

 

It was only after Lonna had suggested that the enchanter take a break to have supper that she realized that most of the day had passed.

 

**

 

It felt odd. She missed her familiar routine. She even missed the smell of the infirmary’s storeroom, heavy with herbs and other things meant for making medicines. She missed knowing where everything was and the proper place for every tool. She missed being trusted to do something as simple as making poultices unsupervised.

 

She sighed at her reflection in the vanity’s mirror, where she was combing out the inky black rope that her hair resembled when braided. She shouldn’t mope. She hadn’t been hurt. Her mentor was still alive and reportedly recovering. And not everyone got lessons with the First Enchanter. He was very kind, and the lessons were unfailingly able to capture her interest, but she could tell he observed her very closely as if making judgments and keeping them to himself. That made the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up for some reason.

 

 _Why can’t things go back to being normal?_ She thought with a frown.

 

Sliding into her sleeping gown and toeing on some slippers, she then shuffled to her bunk. Kneeling and reaching beneath it, she pulled out a small wooden box. Once comfortably settled on top of the blankets, Sevarra gently unwove the spell that kept it sealed. Leaves of various colors were preserved on small squares of paper, having not changed color from the day she’d scooped them from the ground as a child. A pair of flowers were similarly pressed and preserved. Small drawings of the many frogs she and Jowan had captured made her smile.

 

 _Maker, I miss frogs right now,_ she thought with a sigh. Their croaky songs had always charmed her and soothed her feelings when rattled. She remembered feeling so accomplished the times she managed to smuggle one of the little creatures into the tower and into one of Enchanter Tabris’ lessons. She’d been all of 6 or 7 years old then?

 

After cautiously taking note of all the things in her little box of treasures and finding none of them missing, she closed it once more and wove a new sealing spell over it. One quickly learned to keep personal and sentimental items locked up living in the Circle. People thought nothing of taking things that were unguarded and using them. Whether or not they remembered to return them was a typical bone of contention between students and Harrowed mages alike. Box safely stowed under the bed again, she fished out her journal and a pencil from her pillowcase.

 

She needed to write, even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else. Write or scream into the void. Screaming was decidedly off the list, what with nine other girls in the room in various states of getting ready for sleep. The word “why” made many appearances in that evening’s journal entry. She had no rational answers for any of the whys. She wondered if anyone ever would.

 

**

 

It had come with shouts and clattering and the sounds of glass breaking as it hit the stone floor. He silently gave thanks to the Maker that he’d moved the more important parts of his project to other places a handful of days before. Yes, they would find things, but Maker willing, none of it would point to him.

 

Uldred had the look of a bloodhound keen on the scent of its prey as he dug through the cupboards and shelves, tossing things to the ground with little in the way of care for them staying intact. He stood back, watching the senior enchanter as he searched while taking care to keep his own face a mask of indifference. A pair of templars were nearly always nearby when the senior enchanter was out and about. Minders, perhaps? All the enchanter knew was that the senior mage had not been seen in a couple of weeks before making appearances again three days ago. The fact that Senior Enchanter Vimar had yet to make an appearance had the other instructors quietly gossiping with worry when they thought they were out of earshot of any of the senior mages and the first enchanter.

 

“Ah HA!” the bald senior mage crowed in victory. He snatched an empty but obviously used vial from the second shelf from the top in the last cupboard in the room. The cupboard’s door hung by a single mangled hinge, victim to the senior mage’s increasing annoyance minutes before.

 

“Can you not feel it? It practically radiates the stuff!” Uldred murmured, mostly to himself, but also to the pair of templars and the enchanter in the room with him.

 

The templars offered no opinion. The enchanter thought to humor him, lest the man go on another rant. If he got to ranting, it would be supper time before the man would stop. He suspected the senior mage mostly liked the sound of his own voice.

 

“Feel what, senior enchanter?” his subordinate asked.

 

A little smirk twisted the senior mage’s mouth. It was not a pleasant sight to behold. “Blood magic, my dear boy. Blood magic. Someone has been naughty, oh so very naughty. Dabbling in things they should not.”

 

That smile made the enchanter think that the dog-sized spiders he’d seen in the storage caves were many times more friendly and likable in comparison. At least the spiders could be distracted with offers of food while he’d done what was needed.

 

“Unfortunate,” the subordinate offered in reply.

 

“Very unfortunate indeed,” Uldred smirked. “The first enchanter will not look on this kindly. Not to mention how utterly annoyed the knight-commander will undoubtedly be.”

 

 _You’ll have to find the culprit first,_ the enchanter thought with a touch of heat.

 

“You there,” Uldred pointed to one of the templars, “find me a box. I’ll need to take some of these things to the lab for further study. And try not to break anything!”

 

 _Unlike you, they’ve been trained to NOT break any fragile, potentially magical objects,_ the enchanter thought to himself.

 

Once Uldred and his minders were gone, the enchanter quickly retreated to his quarters and locked the door. _Too close. Far too close. I need to find a way to throw him off the trail._ He sighed heavily and sat on his bed, head in his hands.

 

**

 

“Have you gotten to work with a staff yet?” she asked.

 

Neria furrowed her brow for a moment. “Yes, why?”

 

“I-I was just curious. About what type you used, that is. Did… did it sing to you?”

 

“Oh. Uhm. It was beech, kind of a sandy colored one. It had a clear hunk of quartz at the top. I’m not sure you could call it singing, though, there were no voices. Just… a feeling, like it was reflecting me,” the elven apprentice answered.

 

The other apprentice nodded in silence.

 

“You got to play with one recently, I take it?” Neria grinned.

 

Sevarra blushed and nodded. “Y-yeah. First Enchanter let me use one for a lesson.”

 

“What kind of lesson? What kind of staff?”

 

“Uh, well, the staff was a deep walnut with a pale blue square at the top. A chal… chalcedony, I think it was? It shot ice bolts at the target dummies. He said it was for target practice,” she replied.

 

Neria chuckled. “I heard most healers used amber.”

 

She shrugged. “The amber one didn’t sing to me. What’s that got to do with anything?”

 

“What does your mentor use for hers?” the elf asked pointedly.

 

Sevarra had to wrack her mind to recall what Alara’s staff looked like. It wasn’t often that the enchanter brought it out of her office. After a few moments, she managed to recall what it was.

 

“Cherry wood with little amber ovals in a ring around the top.”

 

“That’s a healer’s staff,” Neria said. “The one you picked out… isn’t.”

 

“It picked me,” the human huffed.

 

Her companion snorted in amusement.

 

“It did! First Enchanter said to use the one that sang to me.”

 

A blonde brow arched. “Then what’s a frosty doing apprenticed to a healer? Most people get assigned to someone who has specialized in their affinity.”

 

The human shrugged unknowingly. “Dunno. I’m not the one who makes those sorts of decisions, now am I?”

 

“That’s because people with a healing affinity are stupid rare. Either a current healer picks out an apprentice or they’re assigned one. They look for quick learners, rather than innate talent,” a haughty voice interjected. The two girls turned to see who their intruder was.

 

Evanna, who’d recently earned the rank of Enchanter, smirked at them. “Really now. Your affinity isn’t always your fate. Obviously, someone thought she had the smarts to understand healing magic. It’s not an easy school to master. Many are put off because it is not flashy.”

 

The elven enchanter crinkled her nose in amusement. “Haven’t you girls got chores to do or coursework to study? Off with you now.”

 

The pair pouted as they left their hiding spot in the alchemy lab’s storeroom. Apparently, they weren’t as quiet or sneaky as they thought they were.

 

**

 

It was uncomfortable waiting for the doors to the storage caverns to be unguarded, not to mention hiding all the meat he had as a bribe for the giant spiders. Eventually, his window of opportunity came and he took it. Once the spiders were fed, he frantically made his way to a hidden corner and dug out some of his experiment’s ingredients.

 

He needed to throw them off his trail. Or scare them off. But how does one scare someone like Uldred?

 


	15. Hurts and Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irving discovers a problem and is far from pleased. Sevarra and Neria have a moment together. Stuff continues to run amuck.

At first, she was so happy that she thought she was going to burst into tears. After more than a week, her mistress was finally allowed to resume instructing, albeit on a limited basis until Senior Enchanter Wynne deemed her fit enough to resume her usual duties full-time. The relief had turned to muttering out of Alara’s earshot by the third day. What her teacher couldn’t do with magic in practice, she was bound and determined to discuss the theory of it with painstaking detail and repetition.

 

“Again, girl. What are the schools of matter?” She had a dog-eared text sitting on her lap while she supervised her apprentice from a bench.

 

“Creation and Entropy,” Sevarra answered. She was sat across the table while crushing elfroot leaves in a mortar and pestle. Alara had wanted some ‘multitasking’ done while quizzing her over entropy for the umpteenth time in two days.

 

“And why are they related schools?” the elder prodded.

 

The apprentice fought back the urge to heave a sigh. Dramatic sighs usually only got her extra chores to do. She didn’t mind working, but extra chores ate into what precious little time she could steal away with Neria. The smell of crushed elfroot wasn’t helping. The fragrance her sweet one wore was a mix of jasmine, elfroot, and vanilla. She had to banish thoughts of soft lips against her own before answering.

 

“Because there can be no life without death. The new is nourished from the remains of the old. They are in a cycle, one leading to the other,” she parroted back. On an intellectual level, she could see that being the case. But privately, the thought of new things growing from dead things still mildly creeped her out.

 

The enchanter sniffed. An accepted answer, but seemingly not terribly impressed by it being a parroted one. “The four pillars of entropy are…?”

 

“Disorientation. Weakness. Draining. And...” she knit her brows, fishing for the word that had suddenly gone missing from the tip of her tongue. “Cur-- no. Hexing?”

 

A nod. “Can you think of non-combat uses for several of those spells?”

 

The younger mage chewed on her bottom lip while mashing a particularly stubborn bit of leaf. “Hmm. Well, a sleeping spell could be used to help a resistant patient sleep off a fever. Or used to subdue a combative patient so that a broken bone could be set? Or perhaps a paralysis spell would be more appropriate in that case?”

 

A hint of a smile. “I think those leaves are quite properly mashed by now. Fetch the distillation agent and corks, girl. Don’t be slow about it. You’ve less than an hour before your next lesson.”

 

“Pardon, mistress?” she was frozen where she stood.

 

“Yes. You’ll be heading to the practice room to meet with the First Enchanter. Senior Enchanter Wynne is being rather fussy so I cannot demonstrate spell-weaving myself just yet.” An amused chuckle flitted into the air. “Oh do pick your jaw up from the floor, girl. We’ve poultices to finish.”

 

**

 

He watched with quiet concern. The form was precise, the chant was faithful to the letter and pitch given. And yet… something fought back. Whatever it was, it wasn’t something she was doing intentionally, he mused.

 

“Again,” he ordered.

 

The apprentice sighed for a moment and let her shoulders hang lax as her head fell forward. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and began again. Small, nimble hands artfully danced in the air as they wove the symbols of an Affliction hex, accompanied by the low harsh whispers of the spell’s chant upon her lips. A dull red aura surrounded the grass stuffed dummy that served as her target.

 

He furrowed his brows. Perfect form, perfect chanting, and yet… that spell felt far weaker than it should’ve been. That aura should’ve been bright. A hex cast so near him should’ve felt like an obnoxious burst to his magic-sensing rather than the muffled vibration he’d felt.

 

He went out on a limb and hazarded a guess. “Does this branch of magic make you feel uncomfortable?”

 

Her gaze dropped to her slippered feet as she bit her lower lip. “...maybe?”

 

“Can you elaborate, child?”

 

She wrapped her arms around herself, eyes still cast downward. An amalgam of dread and worry painted her features.

 

“You are not in trouble. Speak.”

 

“It… it feels all wrong,” she twirled her hands in a helpless circle, looking at anything but him.

 

“Magic is just a tool. Any good or ill to be had from it depends entirely on what one does with it,” Irving offered soothingly.

 

“It sort of… hurts, like I’ve been burned. Like… like my mana’s become lava,” she frowned.

 

“When did you first notice that sensation?” he asked.

 

She briefly looked up at him, then back to the ground sadly. “Since… since Enchanter Durmond started the Entropy lessons.”

 

His expression softened. “Did you mention that to him, or to your mentor?”

 

She shook her head no.

 

“So you’ve spent weeks trying to cast magic that causes you physical pain to do so?”

 

Light skin went even paler, looking one shade away from bloodless. A shuffle of feet and a look of shame. A nod.

 

“I… see. We’ve had enough practice for now. Go and rest,” he said.

 

**

 

Durmond and Alara sat silently in the First Enchanter’s Office. The healer seemed to be at ease, while the other enchanter looked concerned. They sat quietly until Irving deigned to grace them with his presence. When he arrived, he had a thick tome under one of his arms. Settling into the stuffed chair behind his desk, the book was set on the desk with a loud thump. He did not look up and at his guests until he’d turned it to a specific page.

 

“Enchanter Durmond, humor me. How long have you been instructing?” Irving said flatly.

 

“Ten years, First Enchanter,” came the slightly nervous reply.

 

“I am correct in assuming that you are aware of affinities?”

 

“Y-yes, ser. Nearly everyone gifted with magic has one, if they live long enough to discover it,” Durmond replied.

 

“And you are aware of the rare instance where a mage may have an affinity that is particularly strong, to the point that it interferes with the school or schools of magic that are in direct opposition to it?”

 

“Only in theory. I’ve only read about it, there was a case in Montsimmard--” the enchanter started to answer.

 

Irving held a hand up, halting Durmond mid-sentence. “Then you are fortunate. It would seem that we have a case in this Circle, as well.”

 

“Pardon?” Durmond looked confused. Alara sat with her hands neatly folded on her lap, failing to hide the tiny smirk on her face.

 

“From my observations, it would seem that the reason Miss Amell struggles so with Entropy magic is that casting it causes her physical pain. Did you notice any signs of that during lessons? Or were you simply intent on making certain she kept up with everyone else so that you wouldn’t look bad?” Irving leveled an icy look Durmond’s way.

 

The enchanter felt his mouth go dry.

 

Irving turned his gaze to Alara. “And did she mention any difficulties to you, her own mentor?” His tone was anything but soft.

 

The small smirk quickly fled the healer’s face.

 

“As I suspected. A student is so intimidated by her instructors, the very people who are supposed to help, that she found suffering physical pain to be the less frightening path. This is an abject failure on both your parts. I am disappointed.”

 

One polite but firm tongue-lashing later, both the enchanters left his office red-faced. Irving glowered as he pulled out a bit of parchment and a quill and began taking notes from the open tome on his desk. His thoughts went dark and muttering. If not for all the chaos since Gustav’s death, perhaps they, and he, would’ve cottoned on sooner. Perhaps the needless suffering could’ve been avoided.

 

He doggedly studied the tome. He had suspicions he wanted to confirm sooner rather than later. The chapter spoke at length about the occasional mage who had no affinity. While unusual, it wasn’t a drawback. In fact, it could be something of a small blessing, as there would be no resistance from his or her own innate magic as they practiced the various schools of magic. He wrinkled his nose; while interesting, that wasn’t what he was looking for insight about.

 

Ice and creation magic seemed to be particularly drawn to Alara’s charge, he mused. For entropy magic to be causing difficulty and pain spoke of a strong affinity belonging to its opposing school. Two affinities in one mage seemed far-fetched, but magic followed its own peculiar rules, not the common sense of mortals. He sighed in defeat, finding nothing in the tome to support the half-brewed hypothesis taking form in his mind. He leaned back in his chair and cast his gaze around the room.

 

A small faded blue book sitting at the bottom of one of the bookshelves furthest from him drew his eye. He squinted, trying to read the title from his perch. _Kiss It And Make It Better: A Practical Guide to Spirit-assisted Healing Magics,_ the spine read. His bushy brows rose to meet his hairline as yet another theory came to him.

 

**

 

“Can I open my eyes yet?”

 

“No, not yet.”

 

Neria led her by the hand as they quietly crept up the stairwell. Sevarra had nearly stumbled a handful of times already, but the elven apprentice didn’t want the surprise to be spoiled just then. They had less than an hour before lights out, she wanted to make sure each minute of it was enjoyed.

 

Sevarra felt the stairs stop and sensed that a level stone floor was once again underneath her shoes. Neria’s hand was tightly gripping hers as they followed a winding route to avoid being seen by anyone. She heard a door creak open before she was pulled in with a giggle. After the door clicked shut, a whisper that sounded like it was a smile came to her ear.

 

“Okay, you can open them now.”

 

Sevarra opened first one eye, then the other. She had to cover her mouth to silence the giggle in her throat. The room was one of the forgotten storerooms, but it had a large clear window, letting them see outdoors clearly. The majority of the windows in the places that the apprentices were allowed to roam were stained glass, depicting scenes inspired by the Chant of Light. The rare few that weren’t were entirely too high up to get a look through, and were just there to take advantage of the daylight to make the rooms seem less dark and dreary.

 

A small handful of stuffed cushions and pillows were piled up near the window, which sat upon a rug that looked suspiciously like one that had gone missing several days ago. A battered book with a faded title on its spine sat on the windowsill along with a brass candlestick whose candle had been snuffed out.

 

“I’ve always liked seeing the stars,” Neria began as she slowly glided over to the cushions and took one to sit on. “Back in the Alienage, when I was really little, I remember my grandad telling me stories about them. He’d point out a group of them and draw a little diagram, and I’d see what he was talking about. Sometimes, when granny wasn’t home, we’d sneak out on to the roof to stargaze.”

 

Sevarra slowly sank into a cushion beside her, taking a brief moment to admire the stars that were coming into view against the blackening sky. They were lovely, but she enjoyed the moonlight playing against Neria’s features more, she decided. She wished she had more than her current pitiful skill at drawing because the scene before her had to be one of the most beautiful things the Maker ever made.

 

The elven girl continued. “I found this book in the library, a little while before… well, we saw what happened,” she patted the old tome with care. “It’s about Tevinter constellations. Star pictures.”

 

Neria casually flicked a hand at the candle, making a tiny flame come to life on the wick. With great reverence, she turned the pages until coming to stop at one that held a stylized image of an owl.

 

“The Tevinters called this one ‘Tenebrium.’ Grandad said the Dalish called it ‘Falon’Din.’ But both have always used an owl shape, from what I could find about them in the library.”

 

She gracefully pointed out a grouping of stars, that if one were to imagine drawing lines between them, closely resembled the shape of an owl. The raven-haired girl smiled and sat closer, wrapping an arm around the blonde’s waist and gently pulling the elf against her side. The elf smiled and rested her head on the human’s shoulder, continuing to point out more star pictures and the names the book said the ancient Tevinters gave them.

 

They lost track of time, only to be reminded by the warning chime of the bell, announcing lights out in ten minutes’ time. Acting before her courage failed her, Sevarra gently cupped Neria’s chin before stealing a kiss. The scent of jasmine, elfroot, and vanilla lingered in her senses long after they’d blushingly stopped for breath and scurried back to their dorms.

 

**

 

Vimar was convinced that he was starting to go mad. He’d been confined to his quarters for over two weeks, now. Looking at the same four walls and out the same little window had become an irritant. He’d read everything on his bookshelf twice now. His journal only had perhaps four unmarked pages left. Casting anything more than a simple wisp summoning spell usually brought the attention and menacing glare of a templar. A pair of them were always posted out in the hall outside of his door.

 

Still no word from the First Enchanter, or even the Knight-Commander. Had they forgotten him, or were they simply making him stew until he’d be ready to confess to anything simply to get a change in scenery? He shook himself. _I am a senior enchanter, by the Maker! I will not fold like someone made of lesser things! They’ll have a long wait if they want me to confess to something I haven’t done!_

 

He sighed and glared out the window. Judging by the angle of the sun above and shadows below, tea time would be within the hour. Even the Tranquil who brought his meals and fetched his dirty dishes and laundry would be welcome company. At least a Tranquil would answer questions. The templars would just glower and otherwise ignore him.

 

A harsh rapping at his door drew him out of his thoughts.

 

“Yes?”

 

A templar opened the door. “Senior Enchanter Vimar, you are going to meet with the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander, immediately.”

 

“Finally. We’ll clear all of this up! It’s been all one big mis--”

 

He gasped as two more templars burst into the room and tied his hands behind his back. They were practically dragging him from his quarters when the first templar responded.

 

“Please do not struggle. You are in enough trouble as it is.”


	16. Someone Over For Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sevarra has an especially unsettling dream. Meanwhile, the enchanters find themselves busy.

The pot of water was at a rolling boil. She carefully dug out the small metal box and measured two generous spoonfuls of crushed leaves and other bits into the water. Taking a seat at a table near the fire, despite the discomfort it usually inspired, she sat and waited, letting the aroma of the infusion soothe her nerves. Chamomile, ginger and one final scent she could not place. Not that it mattered, she knew the tea in the small box was the best one kept on hand, only brought out for special occasions. Papa made it himself, collecting and drying the herbs with great care.

 

“Someday, when you’re a big girl, I’ll show you how to make it yourself,” he had said, carefully harvesting leaves from a plant whose name she did not know. That plant had been one of the prized specimens he and Mama painstakingly collected and raised. It stood tall and proud, with deep green stems, blue-veined leaves and tiny flowers that came in a range of violet, blue and white.

 

Sneaking into the greenhouse used to be one of her favorite things. The smells, the pretty flowers, the feeling of green, growing life all around her. It felt like she left one world and stepped into a newer, quieter one every time she set foot in there. She never harassed the plants, preferring instead to simply stand near and admire them. Mama worried that she would’ve made a mess of the place, plucking delicate medicinal plants from their pots to play with, or stealing the soil to make mud pies or other such things. She was just a small child, after all, small children were known to do such things. Only, she never did. Every time, they’d find her sitting by a random plant, staring at it in wonder.

 

Only… “someday” never came. Their shop had been stormed into by men in breastplates depicting swords that were aflame. Their faces were obscured by bucket-looking helmets. She didn’t know why the strangers had come, or why they were intent on dragging Papa away. One of them kicked him in the gut and called him a “knife-eared demon.” Another called him an “apostate.” She didn’t know what that meant, but somehow, calling someone that word seemed to mean that they could do whatever they wanted to their victim. Mama screamed and threw herself over Papa, trying to shield him from the blows the intruders were raining down on him.

 

She was frozen in place, she remembered that much, hiding under a table Papa had shoved her beneath moments before the strangers broke down the door. He’d told her “Be very quiet, sweetie. Do NOT let them find you! They aren’t nice people!”

 

She didn’t see the sword, but she heard the sound of it being unsheathed and saw the puddle of red that grew beneath the huddled mass that had been her parents. It had become very quiet after the wet sound of blade piercing flesh. She crawled out from under her cover, toward the motionless forms. Papa didn’t move or turn his lifeless gaze from the ceiling. Not even pulling on his pointed ears, which always made him wince, got a reaction. Mama also did not move, did not even attempt to soothe the youngster’s tears and wailing. Mama’s dress, which had been a buttery yellow and very neatly stitched, was more red than anything and torn. Her silver eyes were unmoving, staring into nothingness, like Papa.

 

Crying was exactly the opposite of what Papa had wanted her to do, but she was scared. Why were they ignoring her? She didn’t like this new game they were playing, it wasn’t fun.

 

“Captain, it looks like the filth had a brat. She looks like his get.”

 

The sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor pulled her out of the past and back into the present. Wherever the present was. The kitchen she found herself in was frustratingly both familiar and foreign. A woman, dressed in elegant deep purple robes with a plunging neckline and dripping with golden jewelry, slowly lowered herself into the chair, her black eyes giving her an expectant stare while a small smirk played at her lips.

 

“It bothers you, doesn’t it? The memories, teasing you and taunting you, but always just out of reach. Faces you know with names that you don’t recall.”

 

She regarded the opulently adorned woman across from her. Something whispered in the pit of her stomach to be careful, so very, very careful. This stranger was likely more than she appeared to be. She gripped her mug tightly, knuckles going white.

 

“I could help you if you wished it. Help you find why there are such gaps in your memory. Help you find who you really are.” Her smile seemed predatory. The woman’s hair made her think of fire, for some reason.

 

“I do not know what you are talking about,” the younger woman rose from the table and collected the pot, running its contents through a tea strainer and into a proper ceramic teapot. She poured herself a cup, and then one for her… guest, after a polite cough and another expectant look.

 

“I could help you remember what that ‘secret ingredient’ was. That one thing you just can’t place, the name always slipping away from you,” the black-eyed woman said after taking an appreciative sip from the mug given to her.

 

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” the younger woman said. If she had hackles, they would be raised. Something wasn’t right.

 

“Desires. Everyone has desires, my dear. Be it wealth, power, fame, love… or even lost things brought back to them, everyone wants something. I could be of assistance.” She took another sip of tea, a smile crinkling her brow and lips. “Mmm, no wonder he prized this. Such a shame he didn’t get a chance to teach you the recipe.”

 

_Desire? Wait a minute… rage, hunger, pride, sloth… desire. Sod! A demon! This intruder is a demon, isn’t she?! Fade. This is the Fade! That’s why everything seems familiar and strange at the same time!_

 

The younger woman pushed herself back from the table and stood up, causing her chair to tumble over once she had vacated it.

 

“Get away from me, demon! You’ll find no prey here, no fools willing to fall for your tricks! Leave me and never return!”

 

Her guest arched a perfectly sculpted brow and wore a small frown. “Really, there is no need to be so uncivilized. ‘Demon’ is such a weighted and harsh term. I prefer to see myself as an agent, one who helps people get what they want. My price is rather small when you consider the enormity of such tasks. No one works for free, after all. Except for slaves.”

 

“I am not interested. I will not be your puppet!”

 

The demon rose, still wearing her elegant illusion, and smiled. “And you think you’re free, little mage? Last I heard, being told when to wake up, when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, where to go, what to study, all decided upon with no consideration for your desires does not meet any definition of “freedom.” I could help you to _actually be_ free.”

 

“I said get away!”

 

The next thing she knew, Sevarra tumbled out of her bed and smacked the stone floor of the dormitory face-first. Blinking away the pain and untangling herself from her blankets, she calmed down as the morning light trickled in from the high-up windows. Around her, the other girls were in various stages of getting ready for the day. Some were blearily crawling out of bed, while others hummed to themselves as they headed toward the washroom, intent on getting to the bath water while it was still hot. Gathering her rattled nerves, the apprentice decided a warm bath would be a nice start to the day.

 

Once properly washed, groomed and dressed, she headed to the dining hall hand in hand with Neria. Feeling the pulse in her sweet one’s hand gave her that extra little reminder of _“Yes, this is real. No, this isn’t a dream.”_

 

But that dream… it had seemed so real. She could still remember exactly how that demon-woman had looked at her. _Perhaps… perhaps I should tell Mistress about it?_

 

_**_

 

Of the six pupils he’d first introduced to blood magic, one had allowed himself to become an abomination, three were made Tranquil and one stopped coming to his “lessons” entirely. Unacceptable. He would need to teach several more unsuspecting fools before he could test his prototype spell for detecting blood magic and determine its reliability.

 

He sniffed irritably and began making a mental inventory of which students could be easily tempted by the prospect of extra “help.” A soft knock at the door interrupted his thinking.

 

“Yes, yes, come in,” the instructor said in annoyance.

 

A mousy young elven man ducked into the room. The lad shifted from foot to foot and one hand picked mindlessly at the hem of one of his sleeves. He was the only student who still braved coming to his lessons, the only one who had the courage to continue studying the forbidden.

 

“Ah, you’re here. Good, good,” the enchanter said with false friendliness. “Before we begin, I’m sure you’ve noticed the size of our little study group has, ah… diminished. It seems such a shame that only one person is willing to avail themselves of extra help with their studies. Perhaps you know of someone who’s in need of a little assistance?”

 

A long shot, perhaps, but leave no stone unturned, yes? He had to resist the urge to grin when the student rubbed his chin in thought for a few moments but then nodded with a tentative smile. They went on with the lesson as planned and then he made the young man promise to bring a friend or two around in several nights’ time.

 

With a bit of luck, he would have more bright-eyed eager students to use as unwitting quarry sooner rather than later.

 

**

 

“Do you ever get… strange dreams?” she asked.

 

A snort preceded his reply, his back was to her as he was searching the bookshelf for something in particular. “Who doesn’t in this place?”

 

She frowned briefly. She could still clearly remember what the black-eyed woman from her dream looked and sounded like. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her dream-infiltrator had been like one of the tower’s mousers and she an almost-unfortunate mouse. The pit of ice and fear in her gut that came into being when her mind replayed the dream was making her frustrated and frightened. Most of her dreams evaporated from her memory within an hour of having breakfast, but this most recent one still clung tightly to her mind. It was now an hour at most until supper.

 

“I-I mean… Maker. I mean the sort that seem… especially real? Like someone came to speak to you in them?” she said haltingly.

 

He froze, fingers abandoning the tome he’d been searching for, leaving it slightly jutting out from the shelf. Niall climbed off the step-stool and turned to face her. His normally apathetic features were schooled into a look of seriousness. He took her shoulders and guided her toward the door.

 

“I think that sounds like something you need to talk about with your mentor. As soon as possible. It’s likely nothing. Probably. But all the same, go talk to her. Now.”

 

She blinked in bewilderment several times as the door shut behind her. Perhaps speaking with Mistress _would_ be a good idea, after all. Sevarra hesitantly began picking her way toward the infirmary.

 

Niall sighed and went back to his search. Why did the younger apprentices find him to be an appealing ear to listen to their silly little concerns?

 

**

 

“I hope you realize that the nature of the charges against you are quite serious,” the First Enchanter said in his raspy voice, laced with disappointment.

 

“You’ll have to enlighten me. I’ve spent the past few weeks locked in my quarters,” Vimar huffed.

 

Irving leveled an unamused look his way. “To begin with, there is the unprovoked attack upon Enchanter Alara and her apprentice. They will recover, in time, but I suspect you’ve forever scarred the student’s faith in her elders. People are not animals to beat into compliance, young man.”

 

Vimar hung his head. Irving had a point with that, at least. “And what of Uldred? I was not the only one who… had a lapse in judgment.”

 

“He has been dealt with. Do not try to divert attention from the matter at hand. This meeting is about you and your actions. The second charge almost makes the first pale in comparison.”

 

Vimar arched a brow. _Second charge? What’s the old coot yammering about?_ As far as the Senior Enchanter knew, the attack had been his only lapse. “What do you mean? What is it that I have supposedly done?”

 

Irving furrowed his brows in a glare, rising from his chair and slamming his hands upon his desk. “Blood magic, ser. It has come to my attention that someone has been teaching students blood magic. Reliable sources say that you’ve been complicit in this. Evidence has been uncovered that you’ve requested and received no less than SIX tomes about the topic from outside sources! A seventh was found buried amidst recently delivered alchemy supplies from Orlais!”

 

The Senior Enchanter blinked, utterly baffled. He had done no such thing! What little he _did_ know of blood magic was related to the creation of phylacteries and nothing more! The only things he had sent out in the past year were letters to an old friend still in the Circle he’d been trained at.

 

“First Enchanter, I can assure you that I was not the one to have requested such things! The only things I’ve sent out in the past year are letters to old friends! They’ve only sent back letters, not… not... tomes of forbidden magic that I at least have the sense to not dabble with! Nor would I be foolish enough to lead a student down a path that can only result in ruin.”

 

Irving glared and pulled out a parchment, pointing to the signature at the bottom. “Then how do you explain this? That _is_ your signature, is it not? I may be old, but I am not blind.”

 

Vimar snarled and took the parchment from the elder, scanning it with his eyes. _Maker’s breath, that looks exactly like my signature,_ he thought with dread.

 

**

 

A timid knock at the infirmary’s door drew the achy mage from her musings. What could it be? It certainly wasn’t anything life-threatening, else they would’ve burst into the door yelling at the top of their lungs.

 

“Enter,” Alara wearily replied. _Maker, I am so exhausted,_ she thought, momentarily cursing herself for not taking the chance to escape to her quarters half an hour ago to get some rest.

 

“M-mistress?” Sevarra pushed the door open just enough for her to squeeze herself in.

 

“Back so soon, girl? Shouldn’t you be washing up for supper?” the elder mage asked.

 

“I-I need to talk about something. About… about dreams.”

 

She cocked a silver brow. That was new. Her apprentice never mentioned such things before. Every student was taught about what NOT to do in dreams within hours of coming to the Circle. That warning was repeated at least weekly, lest any of them forget. “Go on.”

 

The story came spilling out, one stuttered bit at a time. The girl shook and looked as if she had tears threatening to pour out as she described the murder of the strange man and woman by men in templar armor. Then came the tea time meeting with the strange woman with black eyes who kept offering her things. That made the healer’s heart stop for a moment. _That sound_ _s_ _like_ _a_ _… no… NO._

 

She stood up and lifted the student’s chin, forcing her to make eye contact. “What did you say to the woman? What did you say, _exactly_?”

 

The girl shivered but replied. “I told her to go away and never come back. I told her I wasn’t interested in what she had to offer.”

 

Alara let her hand fall, releasing the loose hold she’d had on the girl. The breath she didn’t know she was holding came out slowly. _It would seem she was listening to all the warnings, at least,_ she thought.

 

“I will not lie to you, child. It sounds as if a demon visited your dream. It is one of the many burdens of our kind. Our very nature draws the attention of the Fade’s inhabitants, even when we do not intend for it.”

 

She kept her face neutral, not giving a reaction to the girl’s frightened expression. It would do no good to let fear be in control. Fear was the enemy.

 

“The Maker made us as we are for His own reasons. Demons would steal your life from you and see it destroyed out of sheer jealousy. You did well to not give in to the beast’s temptations. What the Fade creatures offer comes at much too high a price. And while you sent one demon away, tomorrow night or perhaps in several years, another one will come to you. You must always be vigilant.”

 

The apprentice wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. The healer felt a momentary spike of regret for being blunt, but sugarcoating one of the inescapable facts of mage-hood would do no one any favors. She placed a light hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

 

“The difference between a mage and an abomination is will. If one is to survive as a mage, your willpower must be even stronger than the spells you command. It is by your will that your powers respond to you. It is by your will that they obey you. It will be by your own willpower that your mind remains your own.”

 

She patted Sevarra’s shoulder. “Now then, I think I just heard the bell for supper. Off with you. Remember what was said.”

 

She watched the hall long after the apprentice had scurried away, mind seemingly heavy with things to ponder. Desire was one of the more cunning types of demon, or so the writings of many generations of arcane scholars said. On one hand, it bode well that her student had shooed it away on her own. On the other, it was disturbing that such a powerful creature had an interest in her in the first place. Alara sighed and went in search of tea. Perhaps she’d add a shot of whiskey, Maker knew she could use it.


	17. Can You Recognize the Face In the Mirror?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uldred is up to something (as usual). Sevarra and Neria goof around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm *very* sorry for the long, long delay in this chapter coming out. Between writer's block and emotional stuff, this went on the back-burner for longer than I intended.

He smiled as the lad returned with more students for their “study group” as promised. Three other apprentices followed the young elf into their impromptu study hall.A small group, but it was most decidedly better than only one. He rose from his seat and went to greet them.

“Ah, good, good. You’ve brought company, Siris,” he beamed at the elven lad.

He recognized the newcomers. Two rather mediocre human boys, Lando and Huven, and a hot-tempered young elven lady, Orani, who was known for her smart mouth. Siris, the elven lad, seemed particularly taken with Orani. The way he looked at her plainly gave it away. Uldred huffed internally. The follies of youth. Time spent pining after another person or trying to woo them was time wasted. He’d learned to resist baser desires decades ago. He’d _invested_ his time in study and had reaped the benefits. He was the second youngest Senior Enchanter in the tower.

Once each of the apprentices had settled into a seat, he began. “You young men and lady are among the brave and open-minded of your kind. What we will be discussing here is not something for the faint of heart. We will touch on things that are not… typically talked about in most of your classes. If any of you have reservations, I would urge you to leave now before we begin. There is no shame in knowing your limits.”

He stood and waited for several long heartbeats. Not a single one of them so much as twitched. He smiled. “Good, good. Your confidence is most refreshing.”

He clapped his hands together. _Time to wave the_ _bait_ _under their noses._ “Now, then. Tell me what you know of blood magic.”

Huven hesitantly bleated out a response. “That you need to use blood to fuel it, and that the Chantry banned its use.”

Orani gave a disapproving snort. “Why should we listen to the Chantry about magic? They’re a bunch of old biddies who hate mages and wouldn’t know the difference between a healing spell and a hex if it bit them on the arse.”

He had to suppress a smirk. _Oh, that one would be easy to sway!_

“Y-yeah!” Siris added to Orani’s statement, likely unaware of just how much he sounded like a toady at that moment.

As it turned out, none of the newcomers knew all that much. He grinned and began his spiel.

“What if I told you that each of you have already witnessed blood magic in use?” the senior enchanter said, folding his hands behind his back.

Three out of the four apprentices gathered looked at him questioningly.

“Of course, most of you were probably too young at the time to recall it.”

Orani bit her lip in thought, then it looked as if something clicked in her mind, her eyes going wide. Huven and Lando still wore clueless expressions.

“What I’m speaking of is the creation of your phylacteries. As you well know, or _should_ know, blood is taken from each new apprentice when they arrive at the Circle. Using that blood, a vial is made that can be used to track you down should any of you ever go missing. That, gentlemen and lady, is blood magic in action.”

Three faces wore varying levels of shock.

“Blood magic is a tool, much like a sword or any of the other schools of magic. A tool is not inherently evil. A tool has no mind and no motivations of its own. Warriors practice with their swords, learning how to use them. Any action they take using those swords lays on the warrior, not the weapon. If carefully used, why should we not avail ourselves of this tool?”

Three young faces held thoughtful expressions before one of them spoke up.

“They trust templars to walk around with swords and to not stab anyone out of hand. Why can’t we learn to use blood magic? It’s not like we’d go around sacrificing anyone. It seems like a similar thing, really,” Lando said.

Uldred let the smirk that wanted to blossom on his lips fuel the feigned friendly smile he put on instead as he beckoned them to gather ‘round for the first of many lessons.

 

**

 

She tried to sit still, but some part of her wanted – no, needed – to wiggle. It was most inconvenient. Her need to fidget didn’t always mean boredom or displeasure. What was happening right then was most especially enjoyable. She fought to keep her slippered feet still, which of course meant that her hands had to have something to play with instead. Trying to not let her usual habits win, the apprentice hooked her hands to the edges of the stool she was sat upon and held on with a white-knuckled grip.

Neria snorted in amusement. The comb made long, slow strokes as it traveled from root to tip over and over again through the mane of inky black hair. She bit her lip to keep from making any comment on her sweet one’s antics. Most times, the fidgeting was harmless, merely a symptom of a mind that needed something to capture its interest or a body in need of activity. But right then, being more or less still would be appreciated. Wiggling made it more challenging to style hair, after all. She separated one small section of hair from the rest and plucked up a roller from the vanity’s top, slowly winding the ebony hair around it. One section rolled up, dozens more to go.

Minutes later, the pair of girls stared into the mirror. The human blinked in bewilderment at her reflection. She looked rather… silly with all of her hair up in the spool-type contraptions the elf called “rollers.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Sevarra asked.

“Of course it will! I’ve seen other girls doing it. Now we just need a bit of heat, then you’ll be sporting pretty waves!” Neria replied.

The dark-haired girl had her doubts but bit her lip to keep them unsaid. She watched Neria’s reflection as she wove the spell. A warm sensation settled over her scalp. She focused on her breathing to keep calm.

 _It’s not fire. It is NOT fire. It’s just a little heat spell, that’s all. It’s not going to hurt me. I’m okay. I. Am. Okay._ Sevarra thought to herself repeatedly until the spell was finished. Her heart was racing as if she’d finished running laps around the island.

“There!” the elf chirped happily. “Let’s see how it turned out!”

They grinned at the results as the last roller was taken out. Waves! She had waves in her hair! It _did_ look nice, the human admitted to herself. She shook her head from side to side to watch her now-wavy hair swish. She stood up from the stool.

“Okay, your turn now!” the human grinned.

A little while later, the elf was chuckling as she tossed her golden waves around. She paused and stared at the mirror in disbelief.

An inky brow quirked upward, catching the look of surprise on Neria’s face. “Is something wrong?”

“Your hair.”

“What do you mean?” Sevarra asked.

“The waves, they’re all gone.”

The human girl wrinkled her brow and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline as she noticed that her hair was once again pin-straight. What in the Maker’s holy smallclothes happened?!

They tried rolling and using the spell on her hair again, only to get the same results. The waves were gone within half an hour both times. It was as if her hair had _opinions_ about how it was supposed to look and that waves were not on its agenda. She gave a helpless shrug to her companion. It would seem that yet one more strange thing about her had surfaced, along with her stronger than average affinity for the Creation school of magic.

 

**

 

He waved his apprentice off to go get some dinner. The lad had worked hard, so very hard. The enchanter smiled with a touch of pride. He’d come a long way from that sad little boy he was all those years ago. He held a fervent hope that he’d pass his Harrowing and take his place in the Circle. Was he ready for the Harrowing yet? No, but sooner rather than later, he would be.

The enchanter ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper mop of hair and sighed. He’d sneak down to the kitchens later. There were more pressing matters than his stomach’s currently feeble request for food. He had things to do while most of the tower was occupied. He slipped away from the small room he used as an office and made his way toward the stockroom. It was for the best that his student didn’t know what he did in his free time. If things went poorly, he wanted to be certain that no suspicious eyes would land on the boy. What he was doing, he did with an eye toward preventing unnecessary loss of life.

Finding no one in the stock room to stop him, he unlocked the doors and crept inside the storage cave. He pulled his staff from the holding loop on his back and readied himself. He had no bribes for the large spiders this time around and he suspected that they wouldn’t let that go without a fight. Summoning a wisp for light, he made his way deeper in, trying to not let the copious volume of cobwebs unnerve him.

A short while later found him brushing bits of burnt spider from his robes. He sighed in disgust and made a mental note to just bring food to bribe them next time. Fighting while hungry had made him expend more mana than expected and that left him feeling somewhat woozy. _Careless. You’d scold the boy for doing the same thing,_ he berated himself.

His eyes landed on the worn rune on the wall. Most would miss it unless they knew what they were looking for. Dust was ever-present and the spiders did a good job of replacing cobwebs between visits. Pressing an open palm against the engraving, he whispered the activation spell. White light bloomed under his hand, racing first to trace the rune and then shimmering to reveal the outline of a doorway. He pushed his way in, the ancient door creaking in protest. He winced, hoping that no one but the surviving spiders were around to hear the sound. He waited a moment for his bobbling wisp to catch up, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light of his latest hiding spot. He took silent inventory, finding nothing out of place from the last time he’d been by.

Kneeling by a wooden trunk bearing the same faint rune as the door, he placed his hand on it and repeated the unlocking spell. A soft clicking greeted his ears. Working quickly and carefully, he lifted the lid and scanned the contents. Three vials were seated in one corner, the substance within them lazily alternating from red, to dark red, to black and back again. In the opposite corner sat a pile of parchment that grew larger each time he visited. The pile held his notes and observations about his experiment, along with the odd rant here and there. He growled to himself. Not so long ago, he was on his way to tripling his supply, only to be interrupted by the need to hide what he could from Uldred the bloodhound.

He picked up one vial and inspected it. _Perhaps I should save you for our dear Senior Enchanter, my little friend?,_ he mused silently. He’d never been fond of the man, anyway. His passing would be noticed, but he doubted any would truly mourn it.

_Wait. What?_

He took a deep breath to steady himself. _No, no more killing. At least for now. I am not a monster!_

Grimacing, he pulled out a charcoal pencil and a piece of scratch paper to begin his latest set of notes. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore the needling voice in his mind that kept asking him if there was any difference between him and a madman. While he was writing and arguing with the proverbial demon in his head, he lost track of time. The sharp pain in his gut reminded him of the meal he skipped. Rising and brushing the cobwebs from his robes, he cursed under his breath.

After sealing up both box and hidden room, he left the caves with the intention of visiting the kitchen in hopes of finding something to eat. Guster, the head cook, usually at least left bread and tea out for the enchanters working late into the night on their various projects and research. He did not catch sight of the pair off dark brown eyes that hid in a corner of the stockroom as he locked up the access doors to the storage caves.


End file.
